mm 


i 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


Cy/ 6^y^-^''^~^ — ■ — ^^^^-^^-M^       c/^^^utL^/.       (S^i-^.^  /^ 


/ 


1/ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2009  witin  funding  from 

University  of  Nortii  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


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BONAVENTURE 


George  W.  Cable's  Writings. 


The     Grandissimes.         A^e-w    edition. 

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BONAVENTURE 


^  TROSE  -PASTORAL  OF  ACADIAN 
LOUISIANA 


BY 


GEORGE    W.    CABLE 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1 888 


Copyright,  1887,  1888, 
By   GEORGE   W.  CABLE. 


RAND  AVERY  COMPANY, 

ELECTROTYPERS   AND   PRINTERS, 

BOSTON. 


CONTENTS 


CARANCRO. 

Chapter.  Page. 

I.       SOSTHENE 1 

II.  Bona  VENTURE  and  Zosephine  ...  4 

III.  Athanasius 9 

IV.  The  Conscript  Officer   ....  15 
V.  The  Cure  of  Carancro        ....  24 

VI.  Missing 33 

VII.  A  Needle  in  a  Haystack    .        .         .        .42 

VIII.  The  Quest  ended 47 

IX.  The  Wedding 55 

X.  After  All 62 


GRANDE  POINTE. 

Chapter.  Page. 

I.     A  Stranger 73 

II.     In  a  Strange  Land 77 

HI.     The  Handshaking 81 

IV.     How  the  Children  rang  the  Bell        .  86 

V 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter.  Page. 

V.  IXVITED    TO    LEAVE 91 

VI.  War  of  Darkness  and  Light       .         .  98 

VII.  Love  and  Duty 103 

VIII.  At  Claude's  Mercy         ....  Ill 

IX.  Ready 116 

X.  Conspiracy 119 

XL  Light,  Love,  and  Victory         .        .        .  129 


AU  LARGE, 


Chaptek 

Page. 

I. 

The  Pot-Hunter      .... 

142 

II. 

Claude  

.     147 

III. 

The  Tavern  Fireside     . 

152 

IV. 

Marguerite 

.     167 

V. 

Father  and  Son      .... 

179 

VI. 

Converging  Lines        .... 

.     188 

VII. 

'Thanase's  Violin    .... 

201 

VIII. 

The  Shaking  Prairie  .... 

.    213 

IX. 

XoT  Blue  Eyes,  nor  Yellow  Hair 

221 

X. 

A  Strong  Team  

.     226 

XL 

He  asks  her  again 

235 

XII. 

The  Beausoleils  and  St.  Pierres   . 

.     248 

XIII. 

The  Chase 

255 

XIV. 

Who  she  was 

.     263 

XV. 

Can  tiiey  close  the  Break? 

269 

XVI. 

The  Outlaw  and  the  Flood    . 

.     271 

XVII. 

Well  Hidden 

280 

CONTENTS. 


Vll 


Chapter. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 


The  Tornado • 

"Tears  and  such  Things"   . 
Love,  Anger,  and  Misunderstanding 
Love  and  Luck  by  Electric  Light    . 
A  Double  Love-Knot 


Page. 
286 
294 
299 
305 
310 


BONAVENTURE. 


CARANCRO. 


CHAPTER   I. 

SOSTHENE. 

Bayou  Teche  is  the  dividiDg  line.  On  its  left  is 
the  land  of  bayons,  lakes,  and  swamps  ;  on  its  right,  the 
beautiful  short-turfed  prairies  of  Western  Louisiana. 
The  Vermilion  River  divides  the  vast  prairie  into  the 
countries  of  Attakapas  on  the  east  and  Opelousas  on 
the  west.  On  its  west  bank,  at  its  head  of  navigation, 
lies  the  sorry  little  town  of  Vermilion ville,  near  about 
which  on  the  north  and  east  the  prairie  rises  and  falls 
with  a  gentle  swell,  from  whose  crests  one  maj',  as 
from  the  top  of  a  wave,  somewhat  overlook  the  sur- 
rounding regions. 

Until  a  few  3'ears  ago,  stand  on  whichever  one  you 
might,  the  prospect  stretched  away,  fair  and  distant, 
in  broad  level  or  gently  undulating  expanses  of  crisp, 
compact  turf,  dotted  at  remote  intervals  by  farms,  each 
with  its  low-roofed  house  nestled  in  a  planted  grove  of 
oaks,  or,  oftener.  Pride  of  China  trees.     Far  and  near 

1 


2  BONA  VEX r UR E. 

herds  of  horses  and  cattle  roamed  at  will  over  the  plain. 
If  for  a  moment,  as  3^011  passed  from  one  point  of  view 
to  another,  the  eye  was  shut  in,  it  was  onl}'  where  in 
some  lane  you  were  walled  in  by  fields  of  dense  tall 
sugar-cane  or  cotton,  or  b}'  huge  green  Chickasaw 
hedges,  studded  with  their  white -petalled,  golden- 
centred  roses.  Eastward  the  plain  broke  into  slight 
ridges,  which,  by  comparison  with  the  general  level, 
were  called  hills ;  while  toward  the  north  it  spread 
away  in  quieter  swells,  with  more  frequent  fields  and 
larger  houses. 

North,  south,  east,  and  west,  far  beyond  the  circle 
of  these  horizons,  not  this  parish  of  Lafayette  only, 
but  St.  Landry,  St.  Martin,  Iberia,  St.  Mary's,  Ver- 
milion,—  all  are  the  land  of  the  Acadians.  This 
quarter  off  here  to  northward  was  named  by  the  Nova- 
Scotian  exiles,  in  memory  of  the  land  from  which  they 
were  driven,  the  Bean  Bassin.  These  small  homestead 
groves  that  dot  the  plain  far  and  wide  are  the  homes 
of  their  children.  Here  is  this  one  on  a  smooth  green 
billow  of  the  land,  just  without  the  town.  It  is  not  like 
the  rest, —  a  large  brick  house,  its  Greek  porch  half 
hid  in  a  grove  of  oaks.  On  that  dreadful  day,  more 
than  a  century  ago,  when  the  I>ritish  in  far-oft'  Acadie 
shut  into  the  chapel  the  villagers  of  Grand  Pre,  a  cer- 
tain widow  fled  with  her  children  to  the  woods,  and 
there  subsisted  for  ten  days  on  roots  and  berries,  until 
finally',  the  standing  crops  as  well  as  the  houses  being 
destroyed,  she  was  compelled  to  accept  exile,  and  in 
time  found  her  way,  with  others,  to  these  praii'ies. 
Her  sou  founded  Vermiliouville.     Her  grandson  rose 


SOSTEENE.  3 

to  power,  —  sat  in  the  Senate  of  the  United  States. 
From  early  manhood  to  hale  gra}"  age,  the  people  of 
his  State  were  pleased  to  hold  him,  now  in  one  capacity, 
now  in  another,  in  their  honored  service  ;  they  made 
him  Senator,  Governor,  President  of  Convention,  what 
you  will.  I  have  seen  the  portrait  for  which  he  sat 
in  early  manhood  to  a  noted  English  court  painter : 
dark  waving  locks  ;  strong,  well-chiselled  features  ;  fine 
clear  eyes  ;  an  air  of  warm,  steady-glowing  intellectual 
energy.  It  hangs  still  in  the  home  of  which  I  speak. 
And  I  have  seen  an  old  ambrotype  of  him,  taken  in 
the  days  of  this  story  :  hair  short-cropped,  gray  ;  eyes 
thoughtful,  courageous  ;  mouth  firm,  kind,  and  ready 
to  smile. 

It  must  have  been  some  3'ears  before  this  picture 
was  taken,  that,  as  he  issued  from  his  stately  porch, 
—  which  the  oaks,  3'ouug  then,  did  not  hide  from  view 
as  they  do  now,  — coming  forth  to  mount  for  his  regu- 
lar morning  ride,  a  weary-faced  woman  stood  before 
him,  holding  by  the  hand  a  little  toddling  boy.  She 
was  sick ;  the  child  was  hungry.  He  listened  to  her 
tale.     Their  conversation  was  in  French. 

"Widow,  are  3'ou?  And  your  husband  was  a 
Frenchman:  yes,  I  see.  Are  3'ou  an  Acadian?  You 
haven't  the  accent." 

"I  am  a  Creole,"  she  said,  with  a  perceptible  flush 
of  resentment.     So  that  he  responded  amiably  :  — 

''Yes,  and,  like  all  Creoles,  proud  of  it,  as  you  are 
right  to  be.  But  I  am  an  Acadian  of  the  Acadians, 
and  never  wished  I  was  any  thing  else." 

He  found  her  a  haven  a  good  half-day's  ride  out 


4  BONAVENTURE. 

across  the  prairies  north-westward,  in  the  home  of  his 
long-time  acquaintance,  Sosth^ne  Gradnego,  who  had 
no  more  heart  than  his  wife  had  to  say  No  to  either 
their  eminent  friend  or  a  houseless  widow  ;  and,  as  to 
children,  had  so  many  already,  that  one  more  was 
nothing.  They  did  not  feel  the  burden  of  her,  she 
died  so  soon  ;  but  they  soon  found  she  had  left  with 
them  a  positive  quantity  in  her  little  prattling,  restless, 
high-tempered  Bonaventure.  Bonaventure  Deschamps  : 
he  was  just  two  years  younger  than  their  own  little 
Zosephine. 

Sosthene  was  already  a  man  of  some  note  in  this 
region, — a  region  named  after  a  bird.  Why  would  it 
not  often  be  well  so  to  name  places,  —  for  the  bird  that 
most  frequents  the  surrounding  woods  or  fields  ?  How 
pleasant  to  have  one's  hamlet  called  Nightingale,  or 
Whippoorwill,  or  Goldfinch,  or  Oriole  I  The  home 
of  Zosephine  and  Bonaventure's  childhood  was  in  the 
district  known  as  Carancro  ;  in  bluff  English,  Carrion 
Crow. 


CHAPTER    II. 

BONAVENTURE    AND    ZOSEPHINE. 

They  did  not  live  f>  la  chapelle ;  that  is,  in  the  vil- 
lage of  six  or  eight  houses  clustered  about  the  small 
wooden  spire  and  cross  of  the  mission  chapel.  8os- 
thc^ne's  small  ground-story  cottage,  with  garret  stairs 
outside  iu  front  ou  the  veranda  and  its  five-acre  farm 


BONAVENTURE  ANB   ZOS^PHINE.  5 

behind,  was  not  even  on  a  highway  nor  on  the  edge 
of  any  rich  has  fond,  —  creek-bottom.     It  was  au  large, 

—  far  out  across  the  smooth,  unscarred  turf  of  the 
immense  prairie,  conveniently  near  one  of  the  clear 
circular  ponds  —  maraises  —  which  one  sees  of  ever}' 
size  and  in  every  direction  on  the  seemingly  level  land. 
Here  it  sat,  as  still  as  a  picture,  within  its  hollow 
square  of  China-trees,  which  every  third  3'ear  yielded 
their  Hmbs  for  fuel ;  as  easy  to  overlook  the  first  time 

—  as  easy  to  see  the  next  time  —  as  a  bird  sitting  on 
her  eggs.  Only  the  practised  eye  could  read  ariglit 
the  infrequent  obscure  signs  of  previous  travel  that 
showed  the  way  to  it,  —  sometimes  no  more  than  the 
occasional  soilure  of  the  short  turf  by  a  few  wheels  or 
hoofs  where  the  route  led  into  or  across  the  coolees  — 
rivulets  —  that  from  marais  to  marais  slipped  south- 
ward toward  the  great  marshes  of  the  distant,  unseen 
Gulf. 

When  I  say  the  parent  of  one  of  these  two  children 
and  guardian  of  the  other  was  a  man  of  note,  I  mean, 
for  one  thing,  his  house  was  painted.  That  he  was 
the  owner  of  thousands  of  cattle,  one  need  not  men- 
tion, for  so  were  others  who  were  quite  inconspicuous, 
living  in  unpainted  houses,  rarely  seeing  milk,  never 
tasting  butter ;  men  who  at  call  of  their  baptismal 
names  would  come  forth  from  these  houses  barefooted 
and  bareheaded  in  any  weather,  and,  while  their 
numerous  progeny  grouped  themselves  in  the  doorway 
one  behind  another  in  inverse  order  of  age  and  stature, 
would  either  point  out  your  lost  way,  or,  quite  as 
readily  as  Sosth^ne,  ask  you  in  beneath  a  roof  where 


6  BONAVENTURE. 

the  coffee-pot  never  went  dry  or  grew  cold  by  day. 
Nor  would  it  distinguisli  him  from  them  to  sa}'  he  had 
many  horses  or  was  always  well  mounted.  It  was  a 
land  of  horsemen.  One  met  them  iucessantly ;  men 
in  Ijroad  hats  and  dull  homespun,  with  thin,  soft, 
untrimmed  brown  beards,  astride  of  small  but  hand- 
some animals,  in  Mexican  saddles,  the  girths  and 
iH'idles  of  plaited  hair,  sometimes  a  pialle  or  arriatte  — 
lasso,  lariat  —  of  plaited  rawhide  coiled  at  the  saddle- 
bow. "  Adieu,  Onesime  "  — alwa3"s  adieu  at  meetmg, 
the  same  as  at  parting.  ''Adieu,  Francois;  adieu, 
Christophe ;  adieu,  Lazare ;  "  and  they  with  then- 
gentle,  brown-eyed,  wild- animal  gaze,  •' Adjieu." 

What  did  make  Sosth^ne  notable  was  the  quiet  thing 
we  call  thrift,  made  graceful  by  certain  rudiments  of 
taste.  To  say  Sosth^ne,  means  Madame  Sosthene  as 
well ;  and  this  is  how  it  was  that  Zosephine  Gradnego 
and  Bonaventure  Deschamps,  though  they  went  not 
to  school,  nevertheless  had  ''  advantages."  For  in- 
stance, the  clean,  hard-scrubbed  cypress  floors  beneath 
their  pattering  feet ;  the  neat  round  parti-colored  mats 
at  the  doors  that  served  them  for  towns  and  villages ; 
the  strips  of  home-woven  carpet  that  stood  for  roads 
—  this  one  to  Mermentau,  that  one  to  Cote  Gel^e,  a 
third  (I  la  chajjelle;  the  walls  of  nnpainted  pine  ;  the 
beaded  joists  under  the  ceiling ;  the  home-made  furni- 
ture, bedsteads  and  wardrobes  of  stained  woods,  and 
hickor}^  chairs  with  rawhide  seats,  hair  upi)ermost ; 
the  white  fringed  counterpanes  on  the  high  feather- 
beds  ;  especially,  in  the  principal  room,  the  house's 
one    mantlepiece,   of    wood    showily   stained    in    three 


BONAVENTURE  AND   ZOS^PHINE.  7 

colors  and  surmounted  by  a  pair  of  gorgeous  vases, 
beneath  which  the  two  children  used  to  stand  and  feast 
their  eyes,  worth  fifty  cents  if  they  were  worth  one,  — 
these  were  as  books  to  them  in-doors  ;  and  out  in  the 
tiny  garden,  where  they  played  wild  horse  and  wild 
cow,  and  la}-  in  ambush  for  butterflies,  they  came  under 
the  spell  of  marigolds,  prince's-feathers,  lady-slippers, 
immortelles,  portulaca,  jonquil,  lavender,  althaea,  love- 
apples,  sage,  violets,  amaryllis,  and  that  grass  ribbon 
they  call  jarreti^re  de  la  vierge^  — the  virgin's  garter. 

Time  passed  ;  the  children  grew.  The  children  older 
than  they  in  the  same  house  became  less  and  less  like 
children,  and  began  to  disappear  from  the  family  board 
and  roof  by  a  mysterious  process  called  marrying, 
which  greatly  mystified  Zosephine,  but  equally  pleased 
her  by  the  festive  and  jocund  character  of  the  occa- 
sions, times  when  there  was  a  ravishing  abundance  of 
fried  rice-cakes  and  houlettes  —  beef-balls. 

To  Bonaventure  these  affairs  brought  less  mystery 
and  less  unalloyed  pleasure.  He  understood  them 
better.  Some  boys  are  born  lovers.  From  the  time 
they  can  reach  out  from  the  nurse's  arms,  they  must 
be  billing  and  cooing  and  choosing  a  mate.  Such  was 
ardent  little  Bonaventure ;  and  none  of  the  Gradnego 
weddings  ever  got  quite  through  its  ceremony  without 
his  big  blue  eyes  being  found  full  of  tears  —  tears 
of  mingled  auger  and  desolation  —  because  by  some 
unpardonable  oversight  he  and  Zosephine  were  still 
left  unmarried.  So  that  the  pretty  damsel  would 
have  to  take  hmi  aside,  and  kiss  him  as  they  clasped, 
and  promise  him,  ''Next  time  —  next  time,  without 
fail!  " 


8  BONA  V EN  JURE. 

Nevertheless,  he  always  reaped  two  proud  delights 
from  these  events.  For  one,  Sosth^ne  always  took 
him  upon  his  lap  and  introduced  him  as  his  little 
Creole.  And  the  other,  the  ex-governor  came  to  these 
demonstrations  —  the  great  governor  I  who  lifted  him 
to  his  knee  and  told  him  of  those  wonderful  things 
called  cities,  full  of  people  that  could  read  and  write ; 
and  about  steamboats  and  steam-cars. 

At  length  one  day,  when  weddings  had  now  pretty 
well  thinned  out  the  ranks  of  Sosthdne's  family,  the 
ex-governor  made  his  appearance  though  no  marriage 
was  impending.  Bouaventure,  sitting  on  his  knee, 
asked  why  he  had  come,  and  the  ex-governor  told 
him  there  was  war. 

'•  Do  you  not  want  to  make  haste  and  grow  up  and 
be  a  drngoon?  " 

The  child  was  silent,  and  Sosthene  laughed  a  little 
as  he  said  privately  in  P^nglish,  which  tongue  his 
exceptional  thi'ift  had  put  him  in  possession  of : 

"Aw,  naw  !  " — he  shook  his  head  amusedly  — 
"he  dawn't  like  hoss.  Go  to  put  him  on  boss,  he 
kick  like  a  frog.  Yass ;  squeal  wuss'n  a  })ig.  But 
still,  sem  time.  3'ou  know,  he  ain't  no  coward;  git 
mad  in  minute;  fight  like  little  ole  ram.  Dawn't 
ondstand  dat  little  fellah  ;  he  love  flower'  like  he  was 
a  gal." 

"  He  ought  to  go  to  school,"  said  the  ex-governor. 
And  8osth(^ne,  half  to  himself,  responded  in  a  hope- 
less tone  : 

"  Yass."  Neither  Sosthene  nor  any  of  his  children 
had  ever  done  that. 


ATIIANASIUS. 


CHAPTER    III. 


ATIIANASIUS. 


AVar  it  was.  The  horsemen  grew  scarce  on  the 
wide  prairies  of  Opelousas.  Far  away  in  \'irginia, 
Tennessee,  Georgia,  on  bloody  fields,  many  an  Aca- 
dian volunteer  and  man}'  a  poor  conscript  fought  and 
fell  for  a  cause  that  was  really  none  of  theirs,  simple, 
non-slaveholding  peasants ;  and  many  died  in  camp 
and  hospital  —  often  of  wounds,  often  of  fevers,  often 
of  mere  longing  for  home.  Bonaventure  and  Zose- 
phine  learned  this  much  of  war :  that  it  was  a  state 
of  affairs  in  which  dear  faces  went  away,  and  strange 
ones  came  back  with  tidings  that  brought  bitter  wail- 
ings  from  mothers  and  wives,  and  made  les  vieux  — 
the  old  fathers  —  sit  very  silent.  Three  times  over 
that  was  the  way  of  it  in  Sosthene's  house. 

It  was  also  a  condition  of  things  that  somehow 
changed  boys  into  men  very  young.  A  great  distance 
away,  but  still  in  sight  south-westward  across  the 
prairie,  a  dot  of  dark  green  showed  where  dwelt  a 
sister  and  brother-in-law  of  Sosthene's  v?>«7?e,  —  wife. 
There  was  not  the  same  domestic  excellence  there  as 
at  Sosthene's  ;  yet  the  dooryard  was  very  populous 
with  fowls  ;  within  the  house  was  always  heard  the 
hard  thump,  thump,  of  the  loom,  or  the  loud  moan  of 
the  si)inning-wheel ;  and  the  children  were  many.  The 
eldest  was  Athanase.  Though  but  fifteen  he  was 
already   stalwart,    and   showed  that  intelligent  sym- 


10  BONAVENTURE. 

pathy  iu  the  family  cares  that  makes  such  offspring  the 
mother's  comfort  and  the  father's  hope.  At  that  age 
he  had  done  but  one  thing  to  diminish  that  comfort  or 
that  hope.  One  would  have  supposed  an  ambitious 
chap  like  him  would  have  spent  his  first  earnings,  as 
other  ambitious  ones  did,  for  a  saddle  ;  but  'Thanase 
Beausoliel  had  bought  a  fiddle. 

He  had  hardly  got  it  before  he  knew  how  to  play  it. 
Yet,  to  the  father's  most  welcome  surprise,  he  remained 
just  as  l)old  a  rider  and  as  skilful  a  thrower  of  the 
arriatte  as  ever.  He  came  into  great  demand  for 
the  Saturday-night  balls.  When  the  courier  with  a 
red  kerchief  on  a  wand  came  galloping  round,  the  day 
before,  from  ile  to  ile^  —  for  these  descendants  of  a 
maritime  race  call  their  homestead  groves  islands,  — 
to  tell  where  the  ball  was  to  be,  he  would  assert,  if 
there  was  even  a  hope  of  it,  that  'Thanase  was  to  be 
the  fiddler. 

In  this  way  'Thanase  and  his  pretty  little  jarmaine 
—  first  cousin  —  Zos^phine.  now  in  her  fourteenth 
year,  grew  to  be  well  acquainted.  For  at  thirteen, 
of  course,  she  began  to  move  in  society,  which  meant 
to  join  in  the  contra-dance.  'Thanase  did  not  dance 
with  her,  or  with  any  one.  She  wondered  why  he  did 
not ;  but  many  other  girls  had  similar  thoughts  about 
themselves.  He  only  played,  his  playing  growing 
better  and  better,  finer  and  finer,  every  time  he  was 
heard  anew.  As  to  the  few  other  cavaliers,  very  will- 
ing were  they  to  have  it  so.  The  music  could  not  be 
too  good,  and  if  'Thanase  was  already  perceptibly  ii 
rival  when  hoisted  up  iu  a  chair  on  top  of   a   table. 


ATHANASIUS.  11 

fiddle  and  bow  in  hand,  "twisting,"  to  borrow  their 
own  phrase  —  "twisting  the  ears  of  that  little  red 
beast  and  rubbing  his  abdomen  with  a  stick,"  it. was 
just  as  w^ell  not  to  urge  him  to  come  down  into  the 
lists  upon  the  dancing-floor.  But  they  found  one 
night,  at  length,  that  the  music  could  be  too  good  — 
when  'Thanase  struck  up  something  that  was  not  a 
dance,  and  lads  and  damsels  crowded  around  standing 
and  listening  and  asking  ever  for  more,  and  the  ball 
turned  out  a  failure  because  the  concert  was  such  a 
success. 

The  memory  of  that  night  was  of  course  still  vivid 
next  day,  Sunday,  and  Zosephine's  memory  was  as 
good  as  any  one's.  I  wish  you  might  have  seen  her 
in  those  days  of  the  early  bud.  The  time  had  returned 
when  Sosth^ue  could  once  more  get  all  his  household 
—  so  had  marriages  decimated  it  —  into  one  vehicle, 
a  thing  he  had  not  been  able  to  do  for  almost  these 
twenty  years.  Zos6phine  and  Bouaventure  sat  on  a 
back  seat  contrived  for  them  in  the  family  calecho. 
In  front  were  the  broad-brimmed  Campeachy  hat  of 
Sosth^ne  and  the  meek,  limp  suubounet  of  la  vieille. 
About  the  small  figure  of  the  daughter  there  was 
always  something  distinguishing,  even  if  you  rode  up 
from  behind,  that  told  of  youth,  of  mettle,  of  self- 
re  (^ard ;  a  neatness  of  fit  in  the  dress,  a  firm  erectness 
in  the  little  sUm  back,  a  faint  proudness  of  neck,  a 
glimpse  of  ribbon  at  the  throat,  another  at  the  waist ; 
a  something  of  assertion  in  the  shght  crispness  of  her 
homespun  sunbonnet,  and  a  ravishing  glint  of  two 
sparks  inside  it  as  you  got  one  glance  within  —  no  more. 


1 2  BONA  VEN T URE. 

And  as  you  rode  on,  if  you  wore  a  young  blade,  you 
would  be  —  as  the  soldier  lads  used  to  say  —  all 
curled  up ;  but  if  3'ou  were  an  old  mustache,  you 
would  smile  inwardly  and  say  to  yourself,  ''  She  will 
have  her  way  ;  she  will  make  all  winds  blow  ni  her 
chosen  direction  ;  she  will  please  herself ;  she  will  be 
her  own  good  luck  and  her  own  commander-in-chief, 
and,  withal,  nobody's  miser\'  or  humiliation,  unless 
3'Ou  count  the  swain  after  swain  that  will  sigh  in 
vain."  As  for  Bonaventure,  sitting  beside  her,  you 
could  just  see  his  bare  feet  limply  pendulous  under 
his  wide  palm-leaf  hat.  And  yet  he  was  a  very  real 
personage. 

"  Bonaventure,"  said  Zosephine,  —  this  was  as  they 
were  returning  from  church,  the  wide  rawhide  straps 
of  their  huge  wooden  two-wheeled  vehicle  creaking  as 
a  new  saddle  would  if  a  new  saddle  were  as  big  as  a 
house,  —  ''Bonaventure,  I  wish  you  could  learn  how 
to  dance.  I  am  tired  trying  to  teach  you.'"  (This 
and  most  of  the  unbroken  English  of  this  stor}*  stands 
for  Acadian  French.) 

Bonaventure  looked  meek  for  a  moment,  and  then 
resentful  as  he  said  : 

'•'•  'Thanase  does  not  dance." 

''  'Thanase  !  Bah  !  What  has  'Thanase  to  do  with 
it?  AYho  was  even  thinking  of  'Thanase?  Was  he 
there  last  night?  Ah  yes!  I  just  remember  now 
he  was.  But  even  he  could  dance  if  he  chose  ;  while 
you  —  you  can't  learn!  You  vex  me.  'Thanase! 
What  do  you  always  bring  him  up  for?  I  wish  you 
would  have  the  kindness  just  not  to  remind  me  of  him  ! 


ATHANASIUS.  13 

Why  does  not  some  one  tell  hlin  how  he  looks,  hoisted 
up  with  his  feet  in  our  faces,  scratching  his  fiddle? 
Now,  the  fiddle,  Bonaventure  —  the  fiddle  would  just 
suit  you.  Ah,  if  you  could  play!"  But  the  boy's 
quick  anger  so  flashed  from  his  blue  eyes  that  she 
checked  herself  and  with  contemplative  serenity  added  : 

"  Pity  nobody  else  can  play  so  well  as  that  tiresome 
fellow.  It  was  positively  silly,  the  way  some  girls 
stood  listening  to  him  last  night.  I'd  be  ashamed,  or, 
rather,  too  proud,  to  flatter  such  a  high-headed  care- 
for-nobody.     I  wish  he  wasn't  my  cousin  !  " 

Bonaventure,  still  incensed,  remarked  with  quiet  in- 
tensity that  he  knew  why  she  wished  'Thanase  was 
not  a  cousin. 

^*  It's  no  such  a  thing!"  exclaimed  Zosephine  so 
forcibly  that  Madame  Sostlitine's  sunbonnet  turned 
around,  and  a  murmur  of  admonition  came  from  it. 
But  the  maiden  was  smiling  and  saying  blithely  to 
Bonaventure  : 

"  Oh,  you — you  can't  even  guess  well."  She  was 
about  to  say  more,  but  suddenly  hushed.  Behind  them 
a  galloping  horse  drew  near,  softly  pattering  along  the 
turfy  road.  As  he  came  abreast,  he  dropped  into  a 
quiet  trot. 

The  rider  was  a  boyish  yet  manly  figure  in  a  new 
suit  of  gray  home-made  linsey,  the  pantaloons  thrust 
into  the  tops  of  his  sturdy  russet  boots,  and  the  jacket 
ending  underneath  a  broad  leather  belt  that  carried  a 
heavy  revolver  in  its  holster  at  one  hip.  A  Campeachy 
hat  shaded  his  face  and  shoulders,  and  a  pair  of  Mexi- 
can spurs  tinkled  their  little  steel  bells  against  their 


14  BONAVENTURE. 

luige  five-spiked  rowels  ou  his  heels.  He  scarcely  sat 
in  the  saddle-tree  —  from  hat  to  spurs  you  might  have 
drawn  a  perpendicular  line.  It  would  have  taken  in 
shoulders,  thighs,  and  all. 

"Adjieu,"  said  the  young  centaur;  and  Sosth^nc 
replied  from  the  creaking  caldche,  "  Adjieu,  'Thanase,  " 
while  the  rider  bestowed  his  rustic  smile  upon  the  group. 
Madame  Sosth^ne's  e3'es  met  his,  and  her  lips  moved 
in  an  inaudible  greeting ;  but  the  eyes  of  her  little 
daughter  were  in  her  lap.  Bonaventure's  gaze  was 
hostile.  A  word  or  two  passed  between  uncle  and 
nephew,  including  a  remark  and  admission  that  the 
cattle-thieves  were  getting  worse  than  ever ;  and  with 
a  touch  of  the  spur,  the  young  horseman  galloped  ou. 

It  seems  enough  to  admit  that  Zosephine's  further 
remarks  were  silly  without  reporting  them  in  full. 

'•  Look  at  his  back!  What  airs  I  If  I  had  looked 
up  I  should  have  laughed  in  his  face  !  "  etc.  "  "Well," 
she  concluded,  after  much  such  chirruping,  •'  there's 
one  comfort  —  he  doesn't  care  a  cent  for  me.  If  I 
should  die  to-morrow,  he  would  forget  to  come  to  the 
funeral.  And  you  think  I  wouldn't  be  glad?  Well, 
you'i'e  mistaken,  as  usual.  I  hate  him,  and  I  just 
know  he  hates  me  !     Everj^body  hates  me  !  " 

The  eyes  of  her  worshipper  turned  upon  her.  But 
she  only  turned  her  own  away  across  the  great  plain 
to  the  vast  arching  sky,  and  patted  the  caleche  with  a 
little  foot  that  ached  for  deliverance  from  its  Sunday 
shoe.  Then  her  glance  returned,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  way  home  she  was  as  sweet  as  the  last  dip  of  cane- 
juice  from  the  boiling  battery. 


THE  CONSCRIPT  OFFICER.  15 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE    CONSCRIPT    OFFICER. 

By  and  by  'Thanase  was  sixteen.  Eighteen  was 
the  lowest  age  for  conscription,  j'et  he  was  in  the  Con- 
federate uniform.  But  then  so  was  his  uncle  Sosth^ne  ; 
so  was  his  father.  It  signified  merely  that  he  had 
been  received  into  the  home  guard.  The  times  were 
sadly  unsettled.  Every  horseman,  and  how  much  more 
every  group  of  horsemen,  that  one  saw  coming  across 
the  prairie,  was  watched  by  anxious  eyes,  from  the 
moment  they  were  visible  specks,  to  see  whether  the 
uniform  would  turn  out  to  be  the  blue  or  the  gray. 
Which  was  the  more  unwelcome  I  shall  not  say,  but 
this  I  can,  that  the  blue  meant  invasion  and  the  gray 
meant  conscription.  Sosth^ne  was  just  beyond  the 
limit  of  age,  and  'Thanase  two  years  below  It;  but 
'Thanase's  father  kept  a  horse  saddled  all  the  time, 
and  slept  in-doors  only  on  stormy  nights. 

Do  not  be  misled  :  he  was  neither  deserter  nor  cow- 
ard ;  else  the  nickname  which  had  quite  blotted  out  his 
real  name  would  not  have  been  Chaouache  —  savage, 
Indian.  He  was  needed  at  home,  and  —  it  was  not 
his  war.  His  war  was  against  cattle-thieves  and  like 
marauders,  and  there  was  no  other  man  in  all  Carancro 
whom  these  would  not  have  had  on  their  track  rather 
than  him.  But  one  gray  dawn  they  found  there  was 
another  not  unlike  him.  They  had  made  an  attempt 
upon   vSosthene's   cattle   one   night;   had   found  them- 


16  BONAVENTURE. 

selves  watched  and  discovered ;  had  turned  and  fled 
westward  half  the  night,  and  had  then  camped  in  tlie 
damp  woods  of  a  has  fond;  when,  just  as  day  was 
breaking  and  they  were  looking  to  tlieir  saddles  about 
to  mount — there  were  seven  of  them — just  then  — 
listen  I  —  a  sound  of  hoofs  ! 

Instantly  every  left  foot  is  in  stirrup  ;  l)ut  before 
they  can  swing  into  the  saddle  a  joyous  cry  is  in  their 
ears,  and  pop  !  pop  !  pop  !  pop  !  ring  the  revolvers  as, 
with  the  glad,  fierce  cry  still  resounding,  three  horse- 
men launch  in  upon  them  — only  three,  but  those  three 
a  whirlwind.  See  that  riderless  horse,  and  this  one, 
and  that  one  !  And  now  for  it  —  three  honest  men 
against  four  remaining  thieves  !  Pop  !  pop  I  dodge, 
and  fire  as  you  dodge !  Pop !  pop !  pop  !  down  he 
goes ;  well  done,  gray-bearded  Sosth^ne !  Shoot 
there'  Wheel  here  I  Wounded?  Nevermind  —  oral 
Another  rogue  reels  !  Collar  him,  Chaouache  !  drag 
him  from  the  saddle  —  down  he  goes  !  What,  again  ? 
Shoot  there !  Look  out,  that  fellow's  getting  away  I 
Ah  !  down  goes  Sosth^ne's  horse,  breaking  his  strong 
neck  m  the  tumble.  Up,  bleeding  old  man  —  bang! 
bang!  Ha,  ha,  ora!  that  finishes  —  ora!  'Twas  the 
boy  saved  your  life  with  that  last  shot,  Sosthene,  and 
the  boy  —  the  youth  is  'Thanase. 

He  has  not  stopped  to  talk  ;  he  and  his  father  are 
catching  the  horses  of  the  dead  and  dying  jayhawkers. 
Now  bind  up  Sosthene' s  head,  and  now  'Thanase's 
hip.  Now  strip  the  dead  beasts,  and  take  the  dead 
men's  weapons,  boots,  and  spurs.  Lift  this  one  moan- 
ing villain  into  his  saddle  and  take  him  along,  though 


THE   CONSCRIPT  OFFICER.  17 

he  is  going  to  die  before  ten  miles  are  gone  over.  So 
tliey  turn  homeward,  leaving  high  revel  for  the  carrion- 
crows. 

Think  of  Bouaventure,  the  slender,  the  intense,  the 
reticent  —  with  'Thanase  limping  on  rude  but  glorious 
crutches  for  four  consecutive  Saturdays  and  Sundays 
up  aud  down  in  full  sight  of  Zosephine,  savior  of  her 
mother  from  widowhood,  owner  of  two  fine  captured 
horses,  and  rewarded  by  Sosthene  with  five  acres  of 
virgin  prairie.  If  the  youjig  fiddler's  music  was  an 
attraction  before,  fancy  its  power  now,  when  the 
musician  had  to  be  lifted  to  his  chair  on  top  of  the 
table  ! 

Bouaventure  sought  comfort  of  Zosephine,  and  she 
gave  it,  tittering  at  'Thanase  behind  his  back,  giving 
Bonaventure  knowing  looks,  and  sticking  her  sun- 
bonnet  in  her  mouth. 

"  Oh,  if  the  bullet  had  only  gone  into  the  dandy's 
fiddle-bow  arm  !  "  she  whispered  gleefully. 

'•  I  wish  he  might  never  get  well !  "  said  the  boy. 

The  girl's  smile  vanished  ;  her  eyes  flashed  lightning 
for  an  instant ;  the  blood  flew  to  her  cheeks,  and  she 
bit  her  lip. 

"  Why  don't  3^ou,  now  while  he  cannot  help  him- 
self—  why  don't  3'ou  go  to  him  and  hit  him  square  in 
the  face,  like  "  —  her  arm  flew  up,  and  she  smote  him 
with  her  sunbonnet  full  between  the  eyes  —  "  like 
that !  "  She  ran  away,  laughing  joj'ously,  while  Bona- 
venture sat  down  and  wept  with  rage  and  shame. 

Day  by  day  he  went  about  his  trivial  tasks  and 
efforts  at   pastime   with   the   one   great   longing   that 


18  B  ON  A  VENTURE. 

Zosephine  would  mure  kindly  let  him  be  her  slave, 
and  something  —  any  thing  —  take  'Thanase  beyond 
reach. 

Instead  of  this  'Thanase  got  well,  and  began  to 
have  a  perceptible  down  on  his  cheek  and  upper  lip, 
to  the  great  amusement  of  Zosephine. 

''He  had  better  take  care,"  she  said  one  day  to 
Bonaventure,  her  eyes  leaving  their  mirth  and  expand- 
ing with  sudden  seriousness,  ''  or  the  conscript  officer 
will  be  after  him,  though  he  is  but  sixteen." 

Unlucky  word  !  Bon  a  venture's  bruised  spirit  seized 
upon  the  thought.  They  were  on  their  way  even  then 
(I  la  chapelle;  and  when  they  got  there  he  knelt  before 
Mary's  shrine  and  offered  the  longest  and  most  earnest 
prayer,  thus  far,  of  his  life,  and  rose  to  his  feet  under 
a  burden  of  guilt  he  had  never  known  before. 

It  was  November.  The  next  day  the  wind  came 
hurtling  over  the  plains  out  of  the  north-west,  bitter 
cold.  The  sky  was  all  one  dark  gray.  At  evening  it 
was  raining.  Sosthene  said,  as  he  sat  down  to  supper, 
that  it  was  going  to  pour  and  blow  all  night.  Chaouache 
said  much  the  same  thing  to  his  wife  as  they  lay  down 
to  rest.  Farther  away  from  Carancro  than  many  of 
Carancro's  people  had  ever  wandered,  in  the  fire- 
lighted  public  room  of  a  village  tavern,  twelve  or 
fifteen  men  were  tramping  busily  about,  in  muddy 
boots  and  big  clanking  spurs,  looking  to  pistols  and 
carbines  of  miscellaneous  patterns,  and  securing  them 
against  weather  under  their  as  yet  only  damp  and 
slightly  bespattered  great-coats,  no  two  of  which  were 
alike.    They  spoke  to  each  other  sometimes  in  French, 


THE  CONSCRIPT  OFFICER.  19 

sometimes  in  Englisii  that  betra3'ed  a  Creole  rather 
than  an  Acadian  accent.  A  3'Oung  man  with  a  neat 
kej)!  tipped  on  one  side  of  his  handsome  head  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  fire,  a  sabre  dangling  to  the  floor 
from  beneath  a  captured  Federal  overcoat.  A  larger 
man  was  telling  him  a  good  story.  He  listened  smil- 
ingly, dropped  the  remnant  of  an  exhausted  cigarette 
to  the  floor,  put  his  small,  neatly  booted  foot  upon  it, 
drew  from  his  bosom  one  of  those  silken  tobacco-bags 
that  our  sisters  in  war-time  used  to  make  for  all  the 
soldier  boys,  made  a  new  cigarette,  lighted  it  with  the 
flint  and  tinder  for  which  the  Creole  smokers  have  such 
a  predilection,  and  put  away  his  appliances,  still  heark- 
ening to  the  story.  He  nodded  his  head  in  heart}' 
approval  as  the  tale  was  finished.  It  was  the  story  of 
Sosth^ne,  Chaouache,  'Thanase,  and  the  jayhawkers. 
He  gathered  up  his  sabre  and  walked  out,  followed  by 
the  rest.  A  rattle  of  saddles,  a  splashing  of  hoofs, 
and  then  no  sound  was  heard  but  the  wind  and  the 
pouring  rain.  The  short  column  went  out  of  the  village 
at  full  gallop. 

Day  was  fully  come  when  Chaouache  rose  and 
stepped  out  upon  his  galerie.  He  had  thought  he 
could  venture  to  sleep  in  bed  such  a  night ;  and,  sure 
enough,  here  morning  came,  and  there  had  been  no 
intrusion.  'Thanase,  too,  was  up.  It  was  raining 
and  blowing  still.  Across  the  prairie,  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach,  not  a  movement  of  human  life  could 
be  seen.  They  went  in  again,  made  a  fire  of  a  few 
fagots  and  an  armful  of  cotton-seed,  hung  the  kettle, 
and  emptied  the  old  coffee  from  the  coffee-pot. 


20  SONAVENTUEE. 

The  mother  and  eliiklren  rose  and  dressed.  The 
whole  family  huddled  around  the  good,  hot,  cotton- 
seed fire.  No  one  looked  out  of  window  or  door  ;  in 
such  wind  and  rain,  where  was  the  need?  In  the  little 
log  stable  hard  b}',  the  two  favorite  saddle-horses 
remained  unsaddled  and  unbridled.  The  father's  and 
son's  pistol-belts,  with  revolvers  buttoned  in  their  hol- 
sters, hung  on  the  bedposts  by  the  headboards  of  their 
beds.  A  long  sporting  I'ifle  leaned  in  a  corner  near 
the  ehiinney. 

Chaouache  and  'Thanase  got  very  busy  plaiting  a 
horse-hair  halter,  and  let  time  go  by  faster  than  they 
knew.  Madame  Chaouache,  so  to  call  her,  prepai-ed 
breakfast.  The  children  played  with  the  dog  and  cat. 
Thus  it  happened  that  still  nobody  looked  out  into 
the  swirling  rain.  Why  should  they?  Only  to  see  the 
wide  deluged  plain,  the  round  drenched  groves,  the 
maraises  and  sinuous  coolees  shining  with  their  floods, 
and  long  lines  of  benumbed,  wet  cattle  seeking  in 
patient,  silent  Indian  file  for  warmer  pastures.  The}' 
knew  it  all  by  heart. 

Yonder  farthest  lie  is  Sosth^ne's.  The  falling  flood 
makes  it  almost  undiscernible.  Even  if  one  looked, 
he  would  not  see  that  a  number  of  horsemen  have  come 
softly  plashing  up  to  Sosth^ue's  front  fence,  for 
Sosth^ne's  house  and  grove  are  themselves  in  the  way. 
They  spy  Bonaventure.  He  is  just  going  in  upon  the 
gal^rie  with  an  armful  of  China-tree  fagots.  Through 
their  guide  and  spokesman  they  utter,  not  the  usual 
halloo,  but  a  quieter  hail,  with  a  friendly  beckon. 

"  Adjieu."     The  men  were  bedraggled,  and  so  wet 


'     THE   CONSCRIPT   OFFICER.  21 

one  could  not  make  out  the  color  of  the  dress.  One 
could  hardly  call  it  a  uniform,  and  pretty  certainly  it 
was  not  blue. 

"  Adjieu,"  responded  Bonaventure,  with  some 
alarm  ;  but  the  spokesman  smiled  re-assuringly.  He 
pointed  far  awa}'  south-westward,  and  asked  if  a  cer- 
tain green  spot  glimmering  faintly  through  the  rain 
was  not  Chaouache's  lie;  and  Bonaventure,  dumb  in 
the  sight  of  his  prayer's  answer,  nodded. 

"And  how  do  you  get  there?"  the  man  asks,  still 
in  Acadian  French  ;  for  he  is  well  enough  acquainted 
with  prairies  to  be  aware  that  one  needs  to  know  the 
road  even  to  a  place  in  full  view  across  the  plain. 
Bonaventure,  with  riot  in  his  heart,  and  feeling  himself 
drifting  over  the  cataract  of  the  sinfullest  thing  that 
ever  in  his  young  life  he  has  had  the  chance  to  do, 
softly  lays  down  his  wood,  and  comes  to  the  corner 
of  the  galerie. 

It  is  awful  to  him,  even  while  he  is  doing  it,  the  ease 
with  which  he  does  it.  If,  he  says,  they  find  it  trouble- 
some crossing  the  marshy  place  by  Numa's  farm,  — 
le  platin  d  cote  cV  V habitation  d,  Numa^  —  then  it  will 
be  well  to  virer  de  honl — go  about,  et  naviguer  au 
large  —  sail  across  the  open  prairie.  "Adjieu."  He 
takes  up  his  fagots  again,  and  watches  the  spattering 
squad  trot  away  in  the  storm,  wondering  why  there  is 
no  storm  in  his  own  heart. 

They  are  gone.  Sosthene,  inside  the  house,  has 
heard  nothing.  The  tempest  suffocates  all  sounds  not 
its  own,  and  the  wind  is  the  wrong  way  anyhow. 
Now  they  are  far  out  in  the  open.     Chaouache's   tie 


22  BONAVENTUBE. 

still  glimmers  to  them  fur  ahead  in  the  distance,  but 
if  some  one  should  only  look  from  the  front  window 
of  its  dwelling,  he  could  see  them  coming.  And  that 
would  spoil  the  fun.  So  they  get  it  into  line  with 
another  man's  grove  nearer  by,  and  under  that  cover 
quicken  to  a  gallop.  Away,  away;  splash,  sj^lash, 
through  the  coolees^  around  the  maraises,  clouds  of 
wild  fowl  that  there  is  no  time  to  shoot  into  rising  now 
on  this  side,  now  on  that ;  snipe  without  number,  gray 
as  the  sky,  with  flashes  of  white,  trilling  petulantly  as 
they  flee  ;  giant  snowy  cranes  lifting  and  floating  away 
on  waving  pinions,  and  myriads  of  ducks  in  great 
eruptions  of  hurtling,  whistling  wings.  On  they  gal- 
lop ;  on  they  splash  ;  heads  down  ;  water  pouring  from 
soaked  hats  and  caps  ;  cold  hands  beating  upon  wet 
breasts ;  horses  throwing  steaming  muzzles  down  to 
their  muddy  knees,  and  shaking  the  rain  from  their 
worried  ears  ;  so  on  and  on  and  on. 

The  horse-hair  halter  was  nearly  done.  The  break- 
fast was  smoking  on  the  board.  The  eyes  of  the  family 
group  were  just  turning  toward  it  with  glances  of  placid 
content,  when  a  knock  sounded  on  the  door,  and  almost 
before  father  or  son  could  rise  or  astonishment  dart 
from  eye  to  eye,  the  door  swung  open,  and  a  man 
stood  on  the  threshold,  all  mud  and  water  and  weap- 
ons, touching  the  side  of  his  cap  with  the  edge  of  his 
palm  and  asking  in  French,  with  an  amused  smile 
forcing  its  way  about  his  lips  :  — 

"Can  fifteen  of  us  get  something  to  eat,  and  feed 
our  horses?  " 

Chaouache  gave  a  vacant  stare,  and  silently  started 


TUE  CONSCRIPT  OFFICER.  23 

toward  the  holsters  that  huDg  from  the  bedpost ;  but 
the  stranger's  right  hand  flashed  around  to  his  own 
belt,  and,  with  a  repeater  half  drawn,  he  cried : 

"Halt!  "  And  then,  more  quietly,  "  Look  out  of 
the  door,  look  out  the  window." 

Father  and  son  looked.     The  house  was  surrounded. 

Chaouache  turned  upon  his  wife  one  look  of  silent 
despair.  Wife  and  children  threw  themselves  upon 
his  neck,  weeping  and  wailing.  'Thanase  bore  the 
sight  a  moment,  ma3'be  a  full  minute  ;  then  drew  near, 
pressed  the  children  with  kind  firmness  aside,  pushed 
between  his  father  and  mother,  took  her  tenderl}'  by 
the  shoulders,  and  said  in  their  antique  dialect,  with 
his  own  eyes  brimming  :  — 

"  Hush  I  hush  !  he  will  not  have  to  go." 

At  a  gentle  trot  the  short  column  of  horsemen  moves 
again,  but  with  its  head  the  other  way.  The  wind  and 
rain  buffet  and  pelt  horse  and  rider  from  behind. 
Chaouache's  door  is  still  open.  He  stands  in  it  with 
his  red-eyed  wife  beside  him  and  the  children  around 
them,  all  gazing  mutely,  with  drooping  heads  and 
many  a  slow  tear,  after  the  departing  cavalcade. 

None  of  the  horsemen  look  back.  Why  should 
they?  To  see  a  barefoot  man  beside  a  woman  in  dingy 
volants  and  casaquin^  with  two  or  three  lads  of  ten  or 
twelve  in  front,  whose  feet  have  known  sunburn  and 
frost  but  never  a  shoe,  and  a  damsel  or  two  in  cotton 
homespun  dress  made  of  one  piece  from  collar  to  hem, 
and  pantalettes  of  the  same  reaching  to  the  ankles  — 
all  standing  and  looking  the  picture  of  witless  inca- 


24  BONAVENTURE. 

pacity,  aud  making  no  plea  against  tyranny  !  Is  that 
a  thing  worth  while  to  tnrn  and  looiv  back  npon?  If 
the  blow  fell  npon  onrselves  or  onr  set,  tliat  would  be 
different ;  but  these  illiterate  and  lowly  ones  —  they 
are  —  you  don't  know  —  so  dull  and  insensible.  Yes, 
it  may  be  true  that  it  is  only  some  of  them  who  feel 
less  acutely  than  some  of  us  —  we  admit  that  gener- 
ously ;  but  when  you  insinuate  that  when  we  overlook 
parental  and  fraternal  anguish  tearing  at  such  hearts 
the  dulness  and  insensibility  are  ours,  3'ou  make  those 
people  extremely  offensive  to  us,  whereas  you  should 
not  estrange  them  from  our  tolerance. 

Ah,  poor  unpitied  mother !  go  back  to  your  toils ; 
they  are  lightened  now  —  a  little  ;  the  cooking,  the 
washing,  the  scrubbing.  Spread,  day  by  day,  the 
smoking  board,  and  call  your  spared  husband  and 
your  little  ones  to  partake  ;  but  you  —  your  tears  shall 
be  your  meat  day  and  night,  while  underneath  your 
breath  you  moan,  "  'Thanase  !  'Thanase  I  " 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE    CURE    OF   CARA^'CRO. 

It  was  an  unexpected  and  capital  exchange.  They 
had  gone  for  a  conscript;  they  came  away  with  a 
volunteer. 

Bonaventure  sat  by  the  fire  in  Sosth^ne's  cottage, 
silent  and  heav}-,  holding  his  small  knees  iu  his  knit 


THE  CUR^   OF  CARANCRO.  26 

bands  and  gazing  into  the  flames.  Zosephine  was 
washing  the  household's  few  breakfast  dishes.  La 
vieille  —  the  mother  —  was  spinning  cotton.  Le  vieux 
—  Sosthene  —  sat  sewing  up  a  rent  in  a  rawhide  chair- 
bottom.  He  paused  by  and  by,  stretched,  and  went 
to  the  window.  His  wife  caught  the  same  spirit  of 
relaxation,  stopped  her  wheel,  looked  at  the  boy  mop- 
ing in  the  chimney-corner,  and,  passing  over  to  his 
side,  laid  a  hand  upon  his  temple  to  see  if  he  might 
have  fever. 

The  lad's  eyes  did  not  respond  to  her ;  they  were 
following  Sosthene.  The  husband  stood  gazing  out 
through  the  glass  for  a  moment,  and  then,  without 
moving,  swore  a  long,  slow  execration.  The  wife  and 
daughter  pressed  quickly  to  his  either  side  and  looked 
forth. 

There  they  came,  the  number  increased  to  eighteen 
now,  trotting  leisurely  through  the  subsiding  storm. 
The  wife  asked  what  they  were,  but  Sosthene  made  no 
reply;  he  was  counting  them:  twelve,  thirteen,  four- 
teen—  fourteen  with  short  guns,  another  one  who 
seemed  to  wear  a  sword,  and  three,  that  must  be  — 

"  Cawnscreep,"  growled  Sosthene,  without  turning 
his  eyes.  But  the  next  moment  an  unusual  sound  at 
his  elbow  drew  his  glance  upon  Zosephine.  ' '  Diahle  ! ' ' 
He  glared  at  her  weeping  eyes,  his  manner  demanding 
of  her  instant  explanation.  She  retreated  a  step, 
moved  her  hand  toward  the  approaching  troop,  and 
cried  distressfully : 

"  Tu  va  o^re!  "  —  "  You  will  see  !  " 

His  glance  was  drawn   to   Bonaventure.     The   lad 


26  BONAVENTURE. 

had  turned  toward  them,  and  was  sitting  upright,  his 
blue  eyes  widened,  his  face  pale,  and  his  lips  apart ; 
but  ere  Sosth^ne  could  speak  his  wife  claimed  his 
attention. 

"  Sosthene !  "  she  exclaimed,  pressing  against  the 
window-pane,  ''ah,  Sosthene  !  Ah,  ah  !  they  have  got 
'Thanase  !  " 

Father,  mother,  and  daughter  crowded  against  the 
window  and  one  another,  watching  the  body  of  horse 
as  it  drew  nigh.  Bonaventure  went  slowly  and  lay 
face  downward  on  the  bed. 

Now  the  dripping  procession  is  at  hand.  They  pass 
along  the  dooryard  fence.  At  the  little  garden  gate 
they  halt.  Only  'Thanase  dismounts.  The  com- 
mander exchanges  a  smiling  word  or  two  with  him, 
and  the  youth  passes  through  the  gate,  and,  while  his 
companions  throw  each  a  tired  leg  over  the  pommel 
and  sit  watching  him,  comes  up  the  short,  flowery  walk 
and  in  at  the  opening  door. 

There  is  nothing  to  explain,  the  family  have  guessed 
it ;  he  goes  in  his  father's  stead.  There  is  but  a 
moment  for  farewells. 

"  Adjieu,  Bonaventure." 

The  prostrate  boy  does  not  move.  'Thanase  strides 
up  to  the  bed  and  looks  at  one  burning  cheek,  then 
turns  to  his  aunt. 

''XimaZacZer'  — "Ishe  ill?" 

" /Sa  Vair  a  ca^''  said  the  aunt.  (//  a  Vcdr  —  he 
seems  so.) 

*'Bien,  n'onc'  Sosthene.  adjieu."  Uncle  and 
nephew  shake  hands  stoutly.      ''Adjieu,"   says  the 


THE  CURt   OF  CARANCRO.  27 

young  soldier  again  to  bis  aunt.  She  gives  her  hand 
and  turns  to  hide  a  tear.  The  youth  takes  one  step 
toward  Zosephine.  She  stands  dry-eyed,  smiling  on 
her  father.  As  the  youth  comes  her  eyes,  without 
turning  to  him,  fill.  He  puts  out  his  hand.  She  lays 
her  own  on  it.  He  gazes  at  her  for  a  moment,  with 
beseeching  eye  —  '^Adjieu."  Her  eyes  meet  his  one 
instant  —  she  leaps  upon  his  neck  —  his  strong  arms 
press  her  to  his  bosom  —  her  lifted  face  lights  up  — 
his  kiss  is  on  her  lips  —  it  was  there  just  now,  and 
now  —  'Thanase  is  gone,  and  she  has  fled  to  an  inner 
room. 

Bonaventure  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  Why 
should  the  boy  look  so  strange?  Was  it  anger,  or 
fever,  or  joy  ?     He  started  out. 

' '  A  ou-ce-tu  va  Bonaventure  V  —  "  Whereabouts 
are  you  going  ?  " 

'^  Va  erier  les  vaches.''  —  ''  Going  to  call  the  cows." 

"  At  this  time  of  day?  "  demanded  la  vieille,  still  in 
the  same  tongue.     ^'  Are  you  crazy?  " 

"Oh!  —  no  I  "  the  boy  replied,  looking  dazed. 
"  No,"  he  said  ;  "  I  was  going  for  some  more  wood." 
He  went  out,  passed  the  woodpile  by,  got  round  behind 
a  corn-crib,  and  stood  in  the  cold,  wet  gale  watching 
the  distant  company  lessening  on  the  view.  It  was  but 
a  short,  dim,  dark  streak,  creeping  across  the  field  of 
vision  like  some  slow  insect  on  a  window-glass.  A 
spot  just  beyond  it  was  a  grove  that  would  presentl}' 
shut  the  creeping  line  finally  from  sight.  They  reached 
it,  passed  beyond,  and  disappeared  ;  and  then  Bona- 
venture took  off  the  small,  soft-brimmed  hat  that  hunor 


28  BONAVENTIRE. 

about  his  03^03,  and,  safe  from  the  sight  and  hearing  of 
all  his  tiny  world,  lifted  his  voice,  and  with  face  kin- 
dling with  delight  swung  the  sorry  covering  about  his 
head  and  cried  three  times : 
. "  Ora  !     Or-r-ra  !     Ora-a-a-a  !  " 

But  away  in  the  night  Madame  Sostli5ne.  hearing  an 
unwonted  noise,  went  to  Bouaventuie's  bed.^ide  and 
found  him  sobbing  as  if  his  heart  had  ])roken. 

'•  He  has  had  a  bad  dream,"  she  said  ;  for  he  would 
not  say  a  word. 

The  cure  of  Vermiliouville  and  Carancro  was  a 
Creole  gentleman  who  looked  burly  and  hard  when  in 
meditation  ;  but  all  that  vanished  when  he  spoke  and 
smiled.  In  the  pocket  of  his  cassock  there  was  alwa3's 
a  deck  of  cards,  but  that  was  only  for  the  game  of 
solitaire.  You  have  your  pipe  or  cigar,  your  flute  or 
violoncello ;  he  had  his  little  table  under  the  orange- 
tree  and  his  game  of  solitaire. 

He  was  much  loved.  To  see  him  beyond  earshot 
talking  to  other  men  you  would  say  he  was  by  nature 
a  man  of  affairs,  whereas,  when  you  came  to  hear 
him  speak  you  find  him  quite  another  sort :  one  of 
the  Elisha  kind,  as  against  the  Elijahs  ;  a  man  of  the 
domestic  sympathies,  whose  influence  on  man  was 
personal  and  familiar ;  one  of  the  sort  that  heal  bitter 
waters  with  a  handful  of  salt,  make  poisonous  pottage 
wholesome  with  a  little  meal,  and  find  eas}',  quiet 
ways  to  deliver  poor  widows  fiom  their  creditors  with 
no  loss  to  either ;  a  man  whom  men  reverenced,  while 
women  loved  and  children  trusted  him. 

The  ex-governor  was  fond  of  his  company,  although 


THE   CUR^   OF  CARANCRO.  29 

the  cure  only  smiled  at  politics  and  turned  the  conver- 
sation back  to  family  matters.  He  had  a  natural  gift 
for  divining  men's,  women's,  children's  personal  wants, 
and  every  one's  distiuctivel}^  from  every  other  one's. 
So  that  to  ever3ijody  he  was  an  actual  personal  friend. 
He  had  been  a  Ions:  time  in  this  re2;ion.  It  was  he 
who  buried  Bonaventure's  mother.  He  was  the  con- 
necting link  between  Bonaventure  and  the  ex-governor. 
Whenever  the  cure  met  this  man  of  worldly  power, 
there  were  questions  asked  and  answered  about  the 
lad. 

A  little  after  'Thanase's  enlistment  the  priest  and 
the  ex-governor,  who,  if  I  remember  right,  was  home 
only  transieotl}'  from  camp,  met  on  the  court-house 
square  of  Vermilionville,  and  stood  to  chat  a  bit,  while 
others  contemplated  from  across  the  deep  mud  of  the 
street  these  two  interesting  representatives  of  sword 
and  gown.  Two  such  men  standing  at  that  time  must 
naturally,  one  would  say,  have  been  talking  of  the 
strength  of  the  defences  around  Richmond,  or  the 
Emperor  Maximilian's  operations  in  Mexico,  or  Kirb\' 
Smith's  movements,  hardly  far  enougli  away  to  make 
it  seem  comfortable.  But  in  reality  they  were  talking 
about  'Thanase. 

"  He  cannot  write,"  said  the  cure  ;  '•  and  if  he  could, 
no  one  at  home  could  read  his  letters." 

The  ex-governor  promised  to  look  after  him. 

'•And  how,"  he  asked,  '-does  Sosthene's  little  or- 
phan get  on?  " 

The  cure  smiled.  "He  is  well  —  ph^^sically.  A 
queer,  high-strung  child  ;  so  old,  yet  so  young.       In 


30  BONAVENTURE. 

some  things  he  will  be  an  infant  as  long  as  he  lives  ; 
in  others,  he  has  been  old  from  the  cradle.  He  takes 
every  thing  in  as  mnch  earnest  as  a  man  of  fifty. 
What  is  to  become  of  him?" 

"Oh!  he  will  come  out  all  right,"  said  the  ex- 
governor. 

"That  depends.  Some  children  are  born  with  fixed 
characters :  you  can  tell  almost  from  the  start  what 
they  are  going  to  be.  Be  they  much  or  little,  they  are 
complete  in  themselves,  and  it  makes  comparatively 
little  difference  into  what  sort  of  a  world  you  drop 
them." 

"  'Thanase,  for  instance,"  said  the  ex-governor. 

"Yes,  you  might  say  'Thanase;  but  never  Bona- 
venture.  He  is  the  other  type  ;  just  as  marked  and 
positive  traits,  but  those  traits  not  yet  builded  into 
character :  a  loose  mass  of  building-material,  and  the 
beauty  or  ugliness  to  which  such  a  nature  may  arrive 
depends  on  who  and  what  has  the  building  of  it  into 
form.  AVliat  he  may  turn  out  to  be  at  last  will  be  no 
mere  product  of  circumstances ;  he  is  too  original  for 
that.  Oh,  he's  a  study  I  Another  boy  under  the  same 
circumstances  might  turn  out  entirely  different ;  and 
yet  it  will  make  an  immense  difference  how  his  expe- 
riences are  allowed  to  combine  with  his  nature."  The 
speaker  paused  a  moment,  while  Bonaventure's  other 
friend  stood  smiling  with  interest ;  then  the  priest 
added,  "He  is  just  now  struggling  with  his  first  great 
experience." 

"What  is  that?" 

"It  belongs,"  replied  the  cure,  smiling  in  his  turn. 


THE   CUR^   OF  CABANCnO.  31 

'"to  the  confidences  of  the  confessional.  But,*'  he 
added,  with  a  Httle  anxious  look,  "  I  can  tell  you  what 
it  will  do ;  it  will  either  sweeten  his  whole  nature  more 
and  more,  or  else  make  it  more  and  more  bitter,  from 
this  time  forth.  And  that  is  no  trifle  to  you  or  me ; 
for  whether  for  good  or  bad,  in  a  large  way  or  in  a 
small  way,  he  is  going  to  m.ake  himself  felt." 

The  ex-governor  mused.  "I'm  glad  the  little  fel- 
low has  you  for  a  friend,  father. —I'll  tell  you;  if 
Sosth^ne  and  his  wife  will  part  with  him,  and  you  will 
take  him  to  live  with  you,  and,  mark  you,  not  try  too 
hard  to  make  a  priest  of  him,  I  will  bear  his  expenses." 
"  I  will  do  it,"  said  the  cure. 

It  required  much  ingenuity  of  argument  to  make  the 
Gradnego  pair  see  the  matter  in  the  desired  light ;  but 
when  the  cure  promised  Sosth^ne  that  he  would  teach 
the  lad  to  read  and  write,  and  then  promised  la  vieille 
that  Zosephine  should  share  this  educational  privilege 
with  him,  the}'  let  him  go. 

Zosephine  was  not  merely  willing,  but  eager,  to  see 
the  arrangements  made.  She  beckoned  the  boy  aside 
and  spoke  to  him  alone. 

"  You  must  go,  Bonaventure.  You  will  go,  will  you 
not  —  when  I  ask  you  ?  Think  how  fine  that  will  be 
—  to  be  educated!  Forme,  I  cannot  endure  an  un- 
educated person.  But— ah!  ca  sre  vaillant,  pour 
savoir  lire.  [It  will  be  bully  to  know  how  to  read.] 
Aie  ya  yaie  !  "  —she  stretched  her  eyes  and  bit  her  lip 
with  delight —  "  C"es«  t'y  gai,  pour  savoir  ecrire! 
[That's  fine  to  know  how  to  write.]  I  will  tell  you  a 
secret,  dear  Bonaventure.      Any  girl  of  sense  is  bound 


32  li  ON  A  ]  ^EJV  T  URE. 

to  tliiuk  it  much  greater  and  finer  for  a  man  to  read 
books  than  to  ride  horses.  She  ma}'  not  want  to.  but 
she  has  to  do  it ;  she  can't  help  herself  !  " 

Still  Bonaventure  looked  at  her  mournfulh'.  She 
tried  again. 

"  When  I  say  any  girl  of  sense  I  include  myself  — 
of  course!  I  think  more  of  a  boy  —  or  man,  eitlier 
—  who  can  write  letters  than  of  one  who  can  pla}'  the 
fiddle.  There,  now,  I  have  told  you  I  And  when  you 
have  learned  those  things,  I  will  be  proud  of  you  ! 
And  besides,  you  know,  if  you  don't  go,  you  make  me 
lose  my  chance  of  learning  the  same  things  ;  but  if  you 
go,  we  will  learn  them  together." 

He  consented.  She  could  not  understand  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face.  She  had  expected  gleams  of 
delight.  There  were  none.  He  went  with  silent  docil- 
ity, and  without  a  tear ;  but  also  without  a  smile. 
When  in  his  new  home  the  cure  from  time  to  time  stole 
glances  at  his  face  fixed  in  unconscious  revery,  it  was 
full  of  a  grim,  unhappy  satisfaction. 

"  Self  is  winning,  or  dying  hard.  1  wish  no  ill  to 
'Thanase  ;  but  if  there  is  to  be  any  bad  news  of  him, 
I  hope,  for  the  sake  of  this  boy's  soul,  it  will  come 
quickly."     So  spoke  the  cure  alone,  to  his  cards. 


MISSING.        .  33 

CHAPTER    VI. 

MISSING. 

The  war  was  in  its  last  throes  even  when  'Thanase 
enlisted.  Weeks  and  months  passed.  Then  a  soldier 
coming  home  to  Carancro  —  home-comers  were  grow- 
ing plentiful  —  brought  the  first  news  of  him.  An 
officer  making  up  a  force  of  picked  men  for  an  expedi- 
tion to  carry  important  despatches  eastward  across  the 
Mississippi  and  far  away  into  Virginia  had  chosen 
'Thanase.  The  evening  the  speaker  left  for  home  on 
his  leave  of  absence  'Thanase  was  still  in  camp,  but 
was  to  start  the  next  morning.  It  was  just  after  Sun- 
day morning  mass  that  Sosth^ne  and  Chaouache,  with 
their  families  and  friends,  crowded  around  this  bearer 
of  tidings. 

''  Had  'Thanase  been  in  any  battles?  " 

"  Yes,  two  or  three." 

"  And  had  not  been  wounded?  " 

*'  No,  although  he  was  the  bravest  fellow  in  his 
company." 

Sosthene  and  Chaouache  looked  at  each  other  tri- 
umphantly, smiled,  and  swore  two  simultaneous  oaths 
of  admiration.  Zosephine  softly  pinched  her  mother, 
and  whispered  something.  Madame  Sosthene  ad- 
dressed the  home-comer  aloud  : 

"  Did  'Thanase  send  no  other  message  except  that 
mere  '  How-d'ye  all  do?'  " 

''No." 


34  B  ON  A  VEN  T  UEE. 

Zosephine  leaned  upon  her  mother's  shoulder,  and 
softly  breathed : 

'•  lie  is  lying." 

The  mother  looked  around,  upon  her  daughter  in 
astonishment.  The  flash  of  scorn  was  just  disappear- 
ing from  the  girl's  eyes.  She  gave  a  little  smile  and 
chuckle,  and  murmured,  with  her  glance  upon  the 
man  : 

"  He  has  no  leave  of  absence.     lie  is  a  deserter.'* 

Then  Madame  Sosth^ne  saw  two  thijigs  at  once : 
that  the  guess  was  a  good  one,  and  that  Zosephine 
had  bidden  childhood  a  final  "  adjieu." 

The  daughter  felt  Bouaventure's  eyes  upon  her. 
He  was  standing  only  a  step  or  two  away.  She  gave 
him  a  quick,  tender  look  that  thrilled  him  from  head 
to  foot,  then  lifted  her  brows  and  made  a  grimace  of 
pretended  weariness.  She  was  growing  prettier  almost 
from  day  to  day. 

And  Bonaventure,  he  had  no  playmates — no  com- 
rades—  no  amusements.  This  one  thing,  which  no 
one  knew  but  the  cur6,  had  taken  possession  of  him. 
The  priest  sometimes  seemed  to  himself  cruel,  so  well 
did  it  please  him  to  observe  the  magnitude  Bonaven- 
ture plainly  attributed  to  the  matter.  The  boy  seemed 
almost  physically  to  bow  under  the  burden  of  his 
sense  of  guilt. 

"It  is  quickening  all  his  faculties,"  said  the  cur6 
to  himself.  Zosephine  had  hardly  yet  learned  to  read 
without  stammering,  when  Bonaventure  was  already 
devouring  the  few  French  works  of  the  cure's  small 
bookshelf.     Silent  on  other  subjects,  on  one  he  would 


MISSING.  35 

talk  till  a  pink  spot  glowed  on  either  cheek-bone  and 
his  blue  eyes  shone  like  a  hot  noon  sky  ;  —  casuistry. 
He  would  debate  the  right  and  wrong  of  any  thing, 
every  thing,  and  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  men  in  every 
relation  of  life. 

Blessed  was  it  for  him  then  that  the  tactful  cure 
was  his  father  and  mother  in  one,  and  the  surgeon 
and  physician  of  his  mind.  Thus  the  struggle  brought 
him  light.  To  the  boy's  own  eyes  it  seemed  to  be 
bringing  him  only  darkness,  but  the  priest  saw  better. 

"  That  is  but  his  shadow  ;  he  is  standing  in  it ;  it  is 
deepening  ;  that  shows  the  light  is  increasing."  Thus 
spake  the  cur6  to  himself  as  he  sat  at  solitaire  under 
his  orange-tree  one  afternoon. 

The  boy  passed  out  of  sight,  and  the  cure's  eyes 
returned  to  his  game  of  solitaire  ;  but  as  he  slowly 
laid  one  card  upon  another,  now  here,  now  there,  he 
still  thought  of  Bonaventure. 

*' There  will  be  no  peace  for  him,  no  sweetness  of 
nature,  no  green  pastures  and  still  waters,  within  or 
without,  while  he  seeks  life's  adjustments  through 
definitions  of  mere  right  and  rights.  No,  boy  ;  you 
will  ever  be  a  restless  captive,  pacing  round  and  round 
those  limits  of  your  enclosure.  Worse  still  if  you 
seek  those  definitions  only  to  justify  your  overriding 
another's  happmess  in  pursuit  of  your  own."  The  boy 
was  not  in  hearmg  ;  this  was  apostrophe. 

''  Bonaventure,"  he  said,  as  the  lad  came  by  again  ; 
and  Bonaventure  stopped.  The  player  pushed  the 
cards  from  him,  pile  by  pile,  leaned  back,  ran  his 
fingers  slowly  through  his  thin  gra}'  hair,  and  smiled. 


36  B  ON  A  VEN  T  UEE. 

"  Bonaventure,  I  have  a  riddle  for  you.  It  came 
to  me  as  I  was  playing  here  just  now.  If  everybody 
could  do  just  as  he  pleased ;  if  he  had,  as  the  governor 
would  say,  all  his  rights,  —  life,  liberty,  pursuit  of 
happiness,  —  if  ever3'body  had  this,  I  say,  why  should 
we  still  V)e  unhappy?  " 

The  boy  was  silent. 

''  AVell,  I  did  not  suppose  you  would  know.  Would 
you  like  me  to  tell  you  ?  It  is  because  happiness  pur- 
sued is  never  overtaken.  And  can  j^ou  guess  why 
that  is?  Well,  never  mind,  my  son.  But  —  would 
3'ou  like  to  do  something  for  me?  " 

Bonaventure  nodded.  The  cure  rose,  taking  from 
his  bosom  as  he  left  his  chair  a  red  silk  handkerchief 
and  a  pocket-worn  note-book.  He  laid  the  note-book 
on  the  table,  and  drawing  back  with  a  smile  said : 

"  Here,  sit  down  in  my  place,  and  write  what  I  tell 
you,  while  I  stretch  m}'  legs.  So  ;  never  mind  whether 
j^ou  understand  or  not.  I  am  saying  it  for  myself:  it 
helps  me  to  understand  it  better.  Now,  as  I  walk, 
you  write.  '  Happiness  pursued  is  never  overtaken, 
because'  —  have  you  written  that?  —  'because,  little 
as  we  are,  God's  image  makes  us  so  large  that  we 
cannot  live  within  ourselves,  nor  even  for  ourselves, 
and  be  satisfied.'  Have  you  got  that  down?  Very 
well  —  yes  —  the  spelling  could  be  improved,  but  that 
is  no  matter.  Now  wait  a  moment ;  let  me  walk  some 
more.  Now  write  :  '  It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be 
alone,  because  '  —  because  —  let  me  see  ;  where  —  ah, 
yes  !  —  '  because  rightly  self  is  the  '  —  Ah  !  no,  no, 
iny  ^<^y  ;  n^t  a  capital  S  for  '  self '  —  ah  !  that's  the 


MISSING.  37 

very  point,  —  small  s,  —  '  because  rightly  self  is  the 
smallest  part  of  us.  Even  God  found  it  good  not 
to  be  alone,  but  to  create' — got   that?  —  'to   create 

objects  for  His  love  and  benevolence.'     Yes 'And 

because  in  my  poor,  small  way  I  am  made  like  Him, 
the  whole  world  becomes  a  part  of  me'  —  Small  m, 
yes,  that  is  right!"  From  bending  a  moment  over 
the  writer,  the  priest  straightened  up  and  took  a  step 
backward.  The  boy  lifted  his  glance  to  where  the 
sunlight  and  leaf-shadows  were  playing  on  his  guard- 
ian's face.  The  cur6  answered  with  a  warm  smile, 
saying  : 

''My  boy,  God  is  a  very  practical  God  — no,  3'ou 
need  not  write  it ;  just  listen  a  moment.  Yes  ;  and  so 
when  He  gave  us  natures  like  His,  He  gave  men  not 
wives  only,  but  brethren  and  sisters  and  companions 
and  strangers,  in  order  that  benevolence,  yes,  and  even 
self-sacrifice,  --  mistakenly  so  called,  —  might  have  no 
lack  of  direction  and  occupation  ;  and  then  bound  the 
whole  human  family  together  by  putting  every  one's 
happiness  into  some  other  one's  hands.  I  see  you  do 
not  understand  :  never  mind  ;  it  will  come  to  you  little 
by  little.  It  was  a  long  time  coming  to  me.  Let  us 
go  in  to  supper." 

The  good  man  had  little  hope  of  such  words  taking 
hold.  At  school  next  day  there  was  Zosephine  with 
her  soft  electric  glances  to  make  the  boy  forget  all ; 
and  at  the  Saturday-night  balls  there  she  was  again. 

"  Bonaventure,"  her  manner  plainly  said,  "  did  you 
ever  see  any  thing  else  in  this  wide  world  so  tiresome 
as  these  boys  about  here?     Stay  with  me;   it  keeps 


38  B  oyA  VEy  t  ure. 

them  away."  She  never  put  such  thoughts  into  words. 
With  an  Acadian  girl  such  a  thing  was  impossible. 
But  girls  do  not  need  words.  She  drew  as  potently, 
and  to  all  appearances  as  impassively,  as  a  loadstone. 
All  others  than  Bonaventure  she  repelled.  If  now 
and  then  she  toyed  with  a  heart,  it  was  but  to  see  her 
imasje  in  it  once  or  twice  and  toss  it  aside.  All  ojot 
one  treatment  in  the  main.  Any  one  of  them  might 
gallop  by  her  father's  veranda  seven  times  a  day,  but 
not  once  in  all  the  seven  would  she  be  seen  at  the 
window  glancing  up  at  the  weather  or  down  at  her 
flowers ;  nor  on  the  veranda  hanging  up  fresh  hanks 
of  yarn  ;  nor  at  the  well  with  the  drinking-pail,  getting 
fresh  water,  as  she  might  so  easil}^  have  been,  had 
she  so  chosen.  Yonder  was  Sosthene  hoeing  leisurely 
in  the  little  garden,  and  possibly  the  sunbonnet  of 
la  vieille  half  seen  and  half  hidden  among  her  lima- 
beans ;  but  for  the  rest  there  was  only  the  house, 
silent  at  best,  or,  worse,  sending  out  through  its  half- 
open  door  the  long,  scornful  No-o-o !  of  the  maiden's 
unseen  spinning-wheel.  No  matter  the  fame  or  grace 
of  the  rider.  All  in  vain,  my  lad :  pirouette  as  3'ou 
will ;  sit  your  gallantest ;  let  your  hat  blow  off,  and 
turn  back,  and  at  full  speed  lean  down  from  the  saddle, 
and  snatch  it  airily  from  the  ground,  and  turn  again 
and  gallop  away  ;  all  is  in  vain.  For  by  her  estimate 
either  you  are  living  in  fear  of  the  conscript  officer; 
or,  if  you  are  in  the  service,  and  here  only  transiently 
on  leave  of  absence,  your  stay  seems  long,  and  it  is 
rumored  your  leave  has  expired  ;  or,  worse,  you  can- 
not read  ;  or,  worst,  your  age,  for  all  3-our  manly  airs. 


MISSING.  39 

is  so  near  Zosephine's  as  to  give  your  attentions  strong 
savor  of  presumption.  But  let  any  fortune  briug 
Bonaventure  in  any  guise  —  sorriest  horseman  of  all, 
youngest,  slenderest,  and  stranger  to  all  the  ways  that 
youth  loves  —  and  at  once  she  is  visible ;  nay,  more, 
accessible  ;  and  he,  welcome.  So  accessible  she,  so 
welcome  he,  that  more  than  once  she  has  to  waft  aside 
her  mother's  criticisms  by  pleading  Bonaventure's  fos- 
ter-brotherhood and  her  one  or  two  superior  years. 
''  Poor  'Thanase !  "  said  the  youths  and  maidens. 

And  now  the  war  came  to  an  end.  Bonaventure 
was  glad.  'Thanase  was  expected  home,  but  —  let 
him  come.  If  the  absent  soldier  knew  what  the  young 
folks  at  the  balls  knew,  he  would  not  make  haste  in 
his  return.  And  he  did  not,  as  it  seemed.  Day  after 
day,  in  group  after  group,  without  shouting  and  with- 
out banners,  with  wounds  and  scars  and  tattered  gar- 
ments, some  on  horses,  but  many  more  on  foot,  the 
loved  ones  —  the  spared  ones,  remnants  of  this  com- 
mand and  that  command  and  'Thanase's  command  — 
came  home.     But  day  by  day  brought  no  'Thanase. 

Bonaventure  began  to  wish  for  him  anxiously.  He 
wanted  him  back  so  that  this  load  might  be  lifted. 
Thus  the  bitter  would  pass  out  of  the  sweet ;  the  haunt- 
ing fear  of  evil  tidings  from  the  absent  rival  would 
haunt  no  more.  Life  would  be  what  it  was  to  other 
lads,  and  Zoscphine  one  day  fall  to  his  share  by  a 
better  title  than  he  could  ever  make  with  'Thanase  in 
exile.     Come,  'Thanase,  come,  come  ! 

More  weeks   passed.     The   youth's   returned   com- 


40  BONAVENTURE. 

rades  were  all  back  at  their  ploughs  again  and  among 
their  herds.  'Thanase  would  be  along  b}'  and  by, 
they  said  ;  he  could  not  come  with  them,  for  he  had  not 
been  paroled  with  them  ;  he  had  been  missing  —  taken 
prisoner,  no  doubt  —  in  the  very  last  fight.  But  pres- 
ently they  who  had  been  prisoners  were  home  also,  and 
still  'Thanase  had  not  come.  And  tlien,  instead  of 
'Thanase  coming,  Chaouache  died. 

A  terror  took  up  its  home  in  the  heart  of  Bonaven- 
ture.  Every  thing  he  looked  upon,  every  creature  that 
looked  upon  him,  seemed  to  offer  an  unuttered  accusa- 
tion. Least  of  all  could  he  bear  the  ghmce  of  Zose- 
phine.  He  did  not  have  to  bear  it.  She  kept  at  home 
now  closely.  She  had  learned  to  read,  and  Sosth^ne 
and  his  vieille  had  pronounced  her  education  completed. 

In  one  direction  only  could  the  eyes  of  Bonaventure 
go,  and  meet  nothing  that  accused  him  :  that  was  into 
the  face  of  the  cure.  And  lest  accusation  should 
spring  up  there,  he  had  omitted  his  confession  for 
weeks.  He  was  still  child  enough  not  to  see  that  the 
priest  was  watching  him  narrowly  and  tenderly. 

One  night,  away  in  the  small  hours,  the  cure  was 
aroused  by  the  presence  of  some  one  in  his  room. 

*'  Who  is  that?  "     He  rose  from  his  pillow. 

"  It  is  I,  father,"  said  a  low  voice,  and  against  the 
darkness  of  an  inner  door  he  saw  dimly  the  small,  long 
nightdress  of  the  boy  he  loved. 

"■What  gets  you  up,  Bonaventure?  Come  here. 
What  troubles  you?" 

"I  cannot  sleep,"  murmured  the  lad,  noiselessly 
moving  near.     The  priest  stroked  the  lad's  brow. 


MISSING.  41 

"  Have  you  not  been  asleep  at  all?  '* 

''Yes." 

"  But  you  have  had  bad  dreams  that  woke  you?  " 

"  Only  one." 

"  And  what  was  that?  " 

There  was  a  silence. 

"  Did  you  dream  about  —  'Thanase,  for  example?  " 

''Yes." 

The  priest  reached  out  and  took  the  boy's  small, 
slender  hands  in  his.     They  were  moist  and  cold. 

'^  And  did  you  dream  "  — 

"  I  dreamed  he  was  dead.     I  dream  it  every  night." 

"  But,  my  child,  that  does  not  make  it  so.  Would 
you  like  to  get  into  bed  here  with  me?  No?  —  or  to 
go  back  now  to  your  own  bed?     No?     What,  then?  " 

"  I  do  not  want  to  go  back  to  bed  any  more.  I 
want  to  go  and  find  'Thanase." 

"Why,  my  child,  you  are  not  thoroughly  awake, 
are  you  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,  I  want  to  go  and  find  'Thanase.  I  have  been 
thinking  to-night  of  all  you  have  told  me  —  of  all  you 
said  that  day  in  the  garden,  — and  —  I  want  to  go  and 
find  'Thanase." 

"My  boy,"  said  the  priest,  drawing  the  lad  with 
gentle  force  to  his  bosom,  ''  my  little  old  man,  does 
this  mean  that  you  have  come  to  the  end  of  all  self- 
service  ?  —  that  self  is  never  going  to  be  spelt  with  a 
capital  S  any  more  ?  Will  it  be  that  way  if  I  let  you 
go?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  then,  my  son  —  God  only  knows  whether  I 
am  wise  or  foolish,  but  —  you  may  go." 


42  BONAVENTURE. 

The  boy  smiled  for  the  first  time  iu  weeks,  then 
climbed  half  upon  the  bed,  buried  his  face  iu  the 
priest's  bosom,  aud  sobbed  as  though  his  heart  had 
broken. 

"It  has  broken,"  said  the  cure  to  himself  as  he 
clasped  him  tightly.     "  It  has  broken  —  thank  God  !  " 


CHAPTER    VII. 


A    NEEDLE    IN    A    HAYSTACK. 


In  such  and  such  a  battle,  in  the  last  charge  across 
a  certain  cornfield,  or  in  the  hurried  falling  back 
tlirough  a  certain  wood,  with  the  murderous  lead  sing- 
ing aud  hitting  from  3'onder  dark  mass  descending  on 
tlie  flank,  and  the  air  full  of  imperious  calls,  "  Halt !  " 
—  "  Surrender  !"  a  man  disappeared.  He  was  not 
with  those  who  escaped,  nor  with  the  dead  when  they 
were  buried,  nor  among  the  wounded  an3'\vhere,  nor  in 
any  group  of  prisoners.  But  long  after  the  war  was 
over,  another  man,  swinging  a  bush  scythe  among  the 
overgrown  corners  of  a  worm  fence,  found  the  poor 
remnant  of  him,  put  it  scarcely  underground,  and  that 
was  the  end.     How  many  times  that  happened  ! 

Was  it  so  with  'Thanase?  No.  For  Sosthdne's 
sake  the  ex-governor  had  taken  much  pains  to  corre- 
spond with  officials  concerning  the  missing  youth,  and 
had  secured  some  slender  re-assurances.  'Thanase, 
though  captured,  had  not  been  taken  to  prison.     Tid- 


A   NEEDLE  IN  A   HAYSTACK,  43 

ings  of  general  surrender  had  overhauled  him  on  the 
waj'  to  it,  near,  I  think,  the  city  of  Baltimore  —  some- 
where in  that  region,  at  any  rate  ;  and  he  had  been 
paroled  and  liberated,  and  had  started  penniless  and 
on  foot,  south-nvestward  along  the  railway- tracks. 

To  find  him,  Bonaventure  must  set  out,  like  him  on 
foot,  south-eastward  over  some  fifty  miles  of  wagon- 
road  to  the  nearest  railway  ;  eastward  again  oyer  its 
cross-ties  eighty  miles  to  la  ville,  the  great  New 
Orleans,  there  to  cross  the  Mississippi.  Then  away 
northward,  through  the  deep,  trestled  swamps,  leagues 
and  leagues,  across  Bayou  La  Branche  and  Bayou 
Desair,  and  Pass  Manchac  and  North  Manchac,  and 
Pontchatoula  River  two  or  three  times ;  and  out  of  the 
swamps  and  pine  barrens  into  the  sweet  pine  hills, 
with  their  great  resinous  boles  rising  one  hundred  — 
two  hundred  feet  overhead  ;  over  meadows  and  fields 
and  many  and  many  a  beautiful  clear  creek,  and  ten 
or  more  times  over  the  winding  Tangipahoa,  by  narrow 
clearings,  and  the  old  tracks  of  forgotten  hurricanes, 
and  many  a  wide  plantation  ;  until  more  than  two  hun- 
dred miles  from  the  great  city,  still  northward  across 
the  sinking  and  swelling  fields,  the  low,  dark  dome 
of  another  State's  Capitol  must  rise  amid  spires  and 
trees  into  the  blue,  and  the  green  ruins  of  fortifications 
be  passed,  and  the  iron  roads  be  found  branching  west, 
north,  and  east. 

Thence  all  was  one  wide  sea  of  improbability.  Even 
before  a  quarter  of  that  distance  should  have  been 
covered,  how  many  chances  of  every  sort  there  were 
against  the  success  of  such  a  search  ! 


44  BONAVENTURE. 

"  It  is  impossible  that  he  should  find  him,"  said  the 
ex-governor. 

"Well,"  —  the  cure  shrugged,  —  "if  he  finds  no  one, 
yet  he  may  succeed  in  losing  himself."  But  in  order 
that  Bonaventure  in  losing  himself  should  not  be  lost, 
the  priest  gave  him  pens  and  paper,  and  took  his 
promise  to  write  back  as  he  went  step  by  step  out  into 
the  world. 

"'  And  learn  English,  my  boy ;  learn  it  with  all 
speed  ;  you  will  find  it  vastly,  no  telling  how  vastly,  to 
your  interest — I  should  say  your  usefulness.  I  am 
sorry  I  could  nut  teach  it  to  you  myself.  Here  is  a 
little  spelling-book  and  reader  for  you  to  commence 
with.  Make  haste  to  know  English  ;  in  America  we 
should  be  Americans  ;  would  that  I  could  say  it  to  all 
our  Acadian  people  !  but  I  say  it  to  3'ou,  learn  English. 
It  may  be  that  by  not  knowing  it  you  may  fail,  or  by 
knowing  it  succeed,  in  this  errand.  And  every  step 
of  3^our  way  let  your  first  business  be  the  welfare  of 
others.  Hundreds  will  laugh  at  you  for  it :  never 
mind  ;  it  will  bring  j^ou  through.  Yes,  I  will  tell  Sos- 
th^ne  and  the  others  good-by  for  3'ou.  I  will  tell 
them  you  had  a  dream  that  compelled  you  to  go  at 
once.  Adieu."  And  just  as  the  rising  sun's  first 
beam  smote  the  cure's  brimming  eyes,  his  "  little  old 
man  "  turned  his  face  toward  a  new  life,  and  set  for- 
ward to  enter  it. 

"  Have  you  seen  an}' where,  coming  back  from  the 
war,  a  young  man  named  'Thanase  Beausoleil?"  — 
This  question  to  every  one  met,  day  in,  day  out,  in 
early  morning  lights,  in  noonday  heats,  under  sunset 


A   NEEDLE  IN  A    HAYSAACE.  45 

glows,  by  a  light  figure  in  thin,  clean  clothing,  dusty 
shoes,  and  with  limp  straw  hat  lowered  from  the  head. 
By  and  bjs  as  first  the  land  of  the  Acadians  and  then 
the  land  of  the  Creoles  was  left  behind,  a  man  every 
now  and  then  would  smile  and  shake  his  head  to  mean 
he  did  not  understand  —  for  the  question  was  in  French. 
But  then  very  soon  it  began  to  be  in  English  too,  and 
by  and  by  not  in  French  at  all, 

"Sir,  have  you  seen  anywhere,  coming  back  from 
the  war,  a  young  man  named  'Thanase  Beausoleil?" 

But  no  one  had  seen  him. 

Travel  was  very  slow.  Not  only  because  it  was 
done  afoot.  Many  a  day  he  had  to  tarry  to  earn 
bread,  for  he  asked  no  alms.  But  after  a  while  he 
passed  eastward  into  a  third  State,  and  at  length  into 
the  mountains  of  a  fourth. 

Meantime  the  weeks  were  lengthening  into  months ; 
the  year  was  in  its  decline.  Might  not  'Thanase  be 
even  then  at  home?  No.  Every  week  Bonaventure 
wrote  back,  "  Has  he  come?"  and  the  answer  came 
back,  "He  is  not  here." 

But  one  evening,  as  he  paced  the  cross-ties  of  a  rail- 
way that  hugged  a  huge  forest-clad  moiintain-side, 
with  the  valley  a  thousand  feet  below,  its  stony  river 
shining  like  a  silken  fabric  in  the  sunset  lights,  the 
great  hillsides  clad  in  crimson,  green,  and  gold,  and 
the  long,  trailing  smoke  of  the  last  train  —  a  rare, 
motionless  blue  gauze  —  gone  to  rest  in  the  chill  mid- 
air, he  met  a  man  who  suddenly  descended  upon  the 
track  in  front  of  him  from  higher  up  the  mountain, — 
a  great,  lank  mountaineer.     And  when  Bonaventure 


46  BONAVENTURE. 

asked  the  apparition  the  untiring  question  to  which  so 
many  hundreds  had  answered  No,  the  tall  man  looked 
down  upon  the  questioner,  a  bright  smile  suddenly 
lighting  up  the  unlovely  chin-whiskered  face,  and 
asked : 

"  Makes  a  fiddle  thess  talk  an'  cry?  " 

*'Yes." 

"  Well,  he  hain't  been  gone  from  hyer  two  weeks." 

It  was  true.  Only  a  few  weeks  before,  gaunt,  foot- 
sore, and  ragged,  tramping  the  cross-ties  yonder  where 
the  railwa}^  comes  from  the  eastward,  curving  into  view 
out  of  that  deep  green  and  gray  defile,  'Thanase  had 
come  into  this  valley.  So  short  a  time  before,  because 
almost  on  his  start  homeward  illness  had  halted  him 
by  the  way  and  held  him  long  in  arrest.  But  at  length 
he  had  reached  the  valley,  and  had  lingered  here  for 
days ;  for  it  happened  that  a  man  in  bought  clothing 
was  there  just  then,  roaming  around  and  hammering 
pieces  off  the  rocks,  who  gave  'Thanase  the  chance  to 
earn  a  little  something  from  him,  with  which  the  hard- 
marched  wanderer  might  take  the  train  instead  of  the 
cross-ties  for  as  far  as  the  pittance  would  carr}^  him. 


THE  QUEST  ENDED.  47 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE    QUEST    ENDED. 

The  next  sunrise  saw  Bonaventure,  with  a  new  en- 
ergy in  his  step,  journeying  back  the  way  he  had  come. 
And  so  anew  the  weeks  wore  by.  Once  more  tlie 
streams  ran  southward,  and  the  landscapes  opened 
wide  and  fertile. 

'"•Sir,  —  pardon  your  stopping,  —  in  what  State 
should  I  find  myself  at  the  present?  " 

The  person  inquired  of  looked  blank,  examined  the 
questioner  from  head  to  foot,  and  replied : 

"In  what  —  oh!  I  understand;  yes.  What  State 
—  Alabama,  yes,  Alabama.  You  must  excuse  me, 
I  didn't  understand  you  at  first.  Yes,  this  is 
Alabama." 

'^  Thank  you,  sir.  Have  you  seen  anywhere,  com- 
ing back  from  the  war,  a  young  man  named  'Thanase 
Beausoleil?  " 

''Back  from  tlie  war!  Why,  everybody  done  got 
back  from  the  war  long  ago."  "  Lawng  ago-o-o," 
the  speaker  pronounced  it,  but  the  pronunciation  could 
not  be  as  untrue  as  the  careless  assertion. 

A  second  time,  and  again  a  third,  Bonaventure  fell 
upon  the  trail.  But  each  time  it  was  colder  than 
before.  And  3'et  he  was  pushing  on  as  fast  as  he 
dared.  Many  a  kind  man's  invitation  to  tarry  and 
rest  was  gratefully  declined.  Once,  where  two  rail- 
ways parted,  one   leading   south,  the   other  west,  he 


48  BONA  YEN T UB E. 

followed  the  southern  for  da3'S,  and  then  came  back 
to  the  point  of  separation,  and  by  and  by  found  the 
lost  thread  again  on  the  more  westward  road.  But 
the  time  since  'Thanase  had  passed  was  the  longest  yet. 
Was  it  certainly  'Thanase?  Yes;  tlie  fiddle  always 
settled  that  question.  And  had  he  not  got  home?  He 
had  not  come.  Somewhere  in  the  long  stretch  between 
Bonaventure  and  Carancro  there  must  be  strange 
tidings. 

On  the  first  New  Year's  eve  after  the  war,  as  the 
sun  was  sinking  upon  the  year's  end,  Bonaventure 
turned  that  last  long  curve  of  the  New  Orleans,  Jack- 
son, and  Great  Northern  Railroad,  through  the  rushes, 
flags,  willows,  and  cypress-stumps  of  the  cleared 
swamp  behind  the  city  of  the  Creoles,  and,  passing 
around  the  poor  shed  called  the  depot,  paused  at  the 
intersection  of  Calliope  and  Magnolia  Streets,  waiting 
the  turn  of  chance. 

Trace  of  the  lost  'Thanase  had  brought  him  at  length 
to  this  point.  The  word  of  a  fellow-tramp,  pledged 
on  the  honor  of  his  guild,  gave  assurance  that  thus  far 
the  wanted  man  had  come  in  strength  and  hope  —  but 
more  than  a  month  before. 

The  necessity  of  moving  on  presently  carried  Bona- 
venture aimlessl}'  into  the  city  along  the  banks  of  the 
New  Canal.  The  lad  had  shot  up  in  these  few  months 
into  the  full  stature,  without  the  breadth,  of  manhood. 
The  first  soft,  uneven  curls  of  a  light-brown  beard 
were  on  his  thin  cheek  and  chin.  Patient  weariness 
and  humble  perseverance  were  in  his  eyes.  His  coarse, 
ill-matched  atlire  was  whole  and,  but  for  the    soilure 


THE  QUEST  ENDED.  49 

of  foot-travel,  clean.  Companioning  with  nature  had 
browned  his  skin,  and  dried  his  straight  fine  hair. 
Any  reader  of  faces  would  have  seen  the  lines  of  un- 
selfish purpose  about  his  lips,  and,  when  they  parted 
nervously  for  speech,  the  earnest  glow  of  that  pur- 
pose in  a  countenance  that  neither  smiled  nor  frowned, 
and,  though  it  was  shaded,  cast  no  shadow. 

The  police  very  soon  knew  him.  They  smiled  at 
one  another  and  tapped  the  forehead  with  one  finger, 
as  he  turned  away  with  his  question  answered  by  a 
shake  of  the  head.  It  became  their  habit.  They  would 
jerk  a  thumb  over  a  shoulder  after  him  facetiously. 

"  Goes  to  see  every  unknown  white  man  found  dead 
or  drowned.  And  yet,  you  know,  he's  happy.  He's 
a  heap  sight  "  —sometimes  they  used  other  adjectives 
—  "a  heap  sight  happier  than  us,  with  his  trampin' 
around  all  day  and  his  French  and  English  books  at 
night,  as  old  Tony  says.  He  bunks  with  old  Tony, 
you  know,  what  keeps  that  little  grocery  in  Solidelle 
Street.  Tony  says  his  candles  comes  to  more  than  his 
bread  and  meat,  or,  rather,  his  rice  and  criiwfish.  He's 
the  funniest  crazy /ever  see.  All  the  crazies  lever 
see  is  got  some  grind  for  pleasing  number  one  ;  but 
this  chap  is  everlastin'ly  a-lookin'  out  for  everybody 
but  number  one.  Oh,  yes,  the  candles  and  books,— 
I  reckon  they  are  for  number  one, —  that's  so;  but 
anyhow,  that's  what  I  hear  Madame  Tony  allow." 

The  short,  wet  winter  passed.  The  search  stretched 
on  into  the  spring.  It  did  not,  by  far,  take  up  the 
seeker's  whole  daily  life.  Only  it  was  a  thread  that 
ran  all  through  it,  a  dye  that  colored  it.     Many  other 


60  B  ON  A  VEN  T  URE. 

factors  —  observations,  occupations,  experiences  — 
were  helping  to  make  up  that  life,  and  to  make  it,  with 
all  its  pathetic  slenclerness,  far  more  than  it  was  likely 
ever  to  have  been  made  at  Carancro.  Through  hun- 
dreds of  miles  of  tramping  the  lad  had  seen,  in  a  sin- 
gularly complete  yet  inhostile  disentanglement  from  it, 
the  world  of  men ;  glimpses  of  the  rich  man's  world 
with  its  strivings,  steadier  views  of  the  poor  man's' 
world  with  its  struggles.  The  times  were  strong  and 
rude.  Every  step  of  his  way  had  been  through  a  land 
whose  whole  civil  order  had  been  condemned,  shattered, 
and  cast  into  the  mill  of  revolution  for  a  total  remould- 
ing. Every  day  came  like  the  discharge  of  a  great 
double-shotted  gun.  It  could  not  but  be  that,  humble 
as  his  walk  was,  and  his  3'ears  so  few,  his  fevered  mind 
should  leap  into  the  questions  of  the  hour  like  a  naked 
boy  into  the  surf.  He  made  mistakes,  sometimes  in 
a  childish,  sometimes  in  an  older  way,  some  against 
most  worthy  things.  But  withal  he  managed  to  keep 
the  main  direction  of  truth,  after  his  own  young  way 
of  thinking  and  telling  it.  He  had  no  such  power  to 
formulate  his  large  conclusions  as  you  or  even  I  have  ; 
but  whatever  wrought  to  enlighten  the  unlettered, 
whatever  cherished  manhood's  rights  alike  in  lofty  and 
lowly,  whatever  worked  the  betterment  of  the  poor, 
whatever  made  man  not  too  much  and  not  too  little  his 
brother's  keeper,  —  his  keeper  not  by  mastery,  but  by 
fraternal  service,  —  whatever  did  these  things  was  to 
him  good  religion,  good  politics.  So,  at  least,  the 
cure  told  the  ex-governor,  as  from  time  to  time  they 
talked  of  the  absent  Bonaventure  and  of  his  letters. 


THE  QUEST  ENDED.  61 

However,  they  had  to  admit  one  thing  :  all  this  did 
not  find  'Thanase. 

And  why,  now,  should  'Thanase  longer  be  sought? 
"Was  there  any  thing  to  gain  by  finding  him  dead? 
Not  for  Bonaventure  ;  he  felt,  as  plainly  as  though  he 
had  seen  an  angel  write  the  decree,  that  to  Bonaven- 
ture Deschamps  no  kind  of  profit  or  advantage  under 
the  sun  must  come  by  such  a  way.  But  was  there  any 
thing  to  be  gained  in  finding  that  'Thanase  still  lived? 
The  police  will  tell  you,  as  they  told  Bonaventure,  that 
in  these  days  of  steam  and  steel  and  j^oked  lightning 
a  man  may  get  lost  and  be  found  again  ;  but  that 
when  he  stays  lost,  and  is  neither  dead  nor  mad,  it  is 
because  he  wants  to  be  lost.  So  where  was  to  be  the 
gain  in  finding  'Thanase  alive?  Oh,  much,  indeed,  to 
Bonaventure  !  The  star  of  a  new  hope  shot  up  into 
his  starless  sk}-  wheu  that  thought  came,  and  in  that 
star  trembled  that  which  he  had  not  all  these  weary 
months  of  search  dared  see  even  with  fancy's  eye, — 
the  image  of  Zosephine  !  This  —  this  !  that  he  had 
never  set  out  to  achieve  —  tliis  !  if  he  could  but  stand 
face  to  face  with  evidence  that  'Thanase  could  have 
reached  home  and  would  not. 

This  thought  was  making  new  lines  in  the  young 
care-struck  face,  when  — 

"See  here,"  said  a  voice  one  day.  Bonaventure's 
sleeve  was  caught  by  the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  a 
man  to  whom,  in  passing,  he  had  touched  his  hat. 
The  speaker  was  a  police  captain. 

"  Come  with  me."  They  turned  and  walked,  Bona- 
venture  saying   not  a  word.     They  passed  a  corner, 


62  B  ON  A  VENTURE. 

turned  to  the  right,  passed  two  more,  turned  to  the 
left,  —  high  brick  walls  on  either  side,  damp,  ill-smell- 
ing pavements  under  foot,  —  and  still  strode  on  in 
silence.  As  they  turned  once  more  to  the  right  in  a 
dim,  narrow  way,  the  captain  patted  the  youth  softly 
on  the  back,  and  said ; 

"Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I'll  tell  you  no  lies." 

So  Bonaventure  asked  none.  But  presently,  in  one 
of  those  dens  called  sailors'  boarding-houses,  some- 
where down  on  the  water-front  near  the  Mint,  he  was 
brought  face  to  face  with  a  stranger  whose  manner 
seemed  to  offer  the  reverse  proposition.  Of  him  the 
youth  asked  questions  and  got  answers. 

'Thanase  Beausoleil  still  lived,  far  bej'ond  seas. 
How?  why?  If  this  man  spake  truly,  because  here  in 
New  Orleans,  at  the  last  turn  in  the  long,  wear}^  jour- 
ney that  was  to  have  brought  the  3'oung  volunteer 
home,  he  had  asked  and  got  the  aid  of  this  informant 
to  ship  —  before  the  mast  —  for  foreign  parts.  But 
why?  Because  his  ambition  and  pride,  explained  the 
informant,  had  outgrown  Carancro,  and  his  heart  had 
tired  of  the  diminished  memor}^  of  the  little  Zos^phine. 

Bonaventure  hurried  away.  What  storms  buffeted 
one  another  in  his  bosom  ! 

Night  had  fallen  upon  the  great  city.  Long  stretches 
of  street  lay  now  between  high  walls,  and  now  between 
low-hanging  eaves,  empty  of  human  feet  and  rife  with 
solitude.  Through  long  distances  he  could  run  and 
leap,  and  make  soft,  mild  pretence  of  shouting  and 
smiting  hands.  The  quest  was  ended  I  rivalry  gone 
of  its  own  choice,  guilt  washed  from  the  hands,  love 


THE   QUEST   ENDED.  63 

returned  to  her  nest.  Zosepliine  !  Zosephine  !  Away 
now,  away  to  the  reward  of  penance,  patience,  and 
loj^alty  !  Unsought,  unhoped-for  reward  !  As  he  ran, 
the  crescent  moon  ran  before  him  in  the  sky,  and  one 
glowing  star,  dipping  low,  beckoned  him  into  the  west. 

And  yet  that  night  a  great  riot  broke  out  in  his 
heart ;  and  in  the  morning  there  was  a  look  on  his  face 
as  though  in  that  tumult  conscience  had  been  drugged, 
beaten,  stoned,  and  left  for  dead  outside  the  gate  of 
his  soul. 

There  was  something  of  defiance  in  his  eye,  not  good 
to  see,  as  he  started  down  the  track  of  the  old  Ope- 
lousas  Railroad,  with  the  city  and  the  Mississippi  at 
his  back.  When  he  had  sent  a  letter  ahead  of  him, 
he  had  no  money  left  to  pay  for  railway  passage. 
Should  he  delay  for  that  or  aught  else,  he  might  never 
start ;  for  already  the  ghost  of  conscience  was  whis- 
pering in  at  the  barred  windows  of  his  heart : 

"  It  is  not  true.  The  man  has  told  you  falsely.  It 
is  not  true." 

And  so  he  was  tramping  once  more  —  toward  Caran- 
cro.  And  never  before  with  such  determined  eagerness. 
Nothing  could  turn  him  about  now.  Once  a  train  came 
in  sight  in  front  of  him  just  as  he  had  started  across 
a  trestle-work  ;  but  he  ran  forward  across  the  open 
ties,  and  leaped  clear  of  the  track  on  the  farther  side, 
just  when  another  instant  would  have  been  too  late. 
He  stood  a  moment,  only  half-pausing  among  the  pal- 
mettos and  rushes  as  the  hurtling  mass  thundered  by  ; 
then  pushed  quickh'  into  the  whirling  dust  of  the  track 
and  hurried  on  between  the  clicking  rails,  not  knowing 


54  B  ON  A  VEN  T  URE. 

that  yonder  dark,  dwindling  speck  behind  was  bearing 
away  from  him  strange  tidings  from  the  cure. 

The  summer  was  coming  on  ;  the  suns  were  hot. 
There  were  leagues  on  leagues  of  unbroken  shaking 
prairie  with  never  a  hand-breadth  of  shade,  but  only 
the  glowing  upper  blue,  with  huge  dazzling  clouds 
moving,  like  herds  of  white  elephants  pasturing  across 
heavenly  fields,  too  slowly  for  the  eye  to  note  their 
motion  ;  and  below,  the  far-reaching,  tremulous  sheen 
of  reed  and  bulrush,  the  wet  lair  of  serpent,  wild-cat, 
and  alligator.  Now  and  then  there  was  the  cool  blue 
of  sunny,  wind-swept  waters  winding  hither  and  thither 
toward  tlie  sea,  and  sometimes  miles  of  deep  forest 
swamp  through  which  the  railroad  went  by  broad. 
frowzy,  treeless  clearings  flanked  with  impassable 
oozy  ditches  ;  but  shade  there  was  none. 

Nor  was  there  peace.  Always  as  he  strode  along, 
something  he  could  not  outgo  was  at  his  side,  gaunt, 
wounded,  soiled,  whispering:  "Turn  back;  turn  back, 
and  settle  with  me,"  and  ever  put  off  with  promises  — 
after  that  fashion  as  old  as  the  world  —  to  do  no  end 
of  good  things  if  only  the  one  right  thing  might  be  left 
undone. 

And  so  because  there  were  no  shade,  no  peace,  and 
no  turning  back,  no  one  day's  march  made  him  stronger 
for  the  next ;  and  at  length,  when  he  came  to  the  low 
thatch  of  a  negro-cabin,  under  the  shadow  of  its  ba- 
nanas he  sank  down  in  its  doorway,  red  with  fever. 

There  he  had  to  stay  many  days  ;  but  in  the  end  he 
was  up  and  on  his  way  again.  He  left  the  Atchafalaya 
behind  him.      It  was  easier  going  now.      There  was 


THE    WEDDING.  65 

shade.  Under  his  trudging  feet  was  the  wagon-road 
along  the  farther  levee  of  the  Teche.  Above  him  great 
live-oaks  stretched  their  arms  clad  in  green  vestments 
and  gray  drapings,  the  bright  sugar-cane  fields  were  on 
his  left,  and  on  his  right  the  beautiful  winding  bayou. 
In  his  face,  not  joy,  only  pallid  eagerness,  desire  fixed 
upon  fulfilment,  and  knowledge  that  happiness  was 
something  else  ;  a  young,  worn  face,  with  hard  lines 
about  the  mouth  and  neck ;  the  face  of  one  who  had 
thought  self  to  be  dead  and  buried,  and  had  seen  it 
rise  to  life  again,  and  fallen  captive  to  it.  So  he  was 
drawing  near  to  Carancro.    Make  haste,  Bonaventure  ! 


CHAPTER    IX. 


THE    WEDDING. 


A  HORSE  and  buggy  have  this  moment  been  stopped 
and  are  standing  on  a  faint  rise  of  ground  seven  miles 
out  beyond  the  south-western  outskirt  of  Carancro. 
The  two  male  occupants  of  the  vehicle  are  lifting  their 
heads,  and  looking  with  well-pleased  faces  at  some- 
thing out  over  the  plain.  You  know  the  cure?  —  and 
the  ex-governor. 

In  the  far  distance,  across  the  vast  level,  something 
that  looks  hardly  so  large  on  the  plain  as  an  ant  on  the 
floor,  is  moving  this  way  across  it.  This  is  what  the 
cure  and  his  friend  are  watching.  Open  in  the  curb's 
hand,  as  if  he  had  just  read  it  aloud  again,  is  that  last 


5Q  BONAVENTURE, 

letter  of  Bonaventure's,  sent  ahead  of  him  from  New 
Orleans  and  received  some  days  ago.  The  governor 
holds  the  reins. 

AVliat  do  they  see?  Some  traveller  afoot?  Can  it 
be  that  Bonaventnre  is  in  sight?  That  is  not  even  the 
direction  from  which  Bonaventnre,  when  he  comes, 
will  appear.  No,  speck  though  it  is,  the  object  they 
are  looking  at  is  far  larger  than  a  man  afoot,  or  any 
horse,  or  horse  and  cal5che.  It  is  a  house.  It  is  on 
wheels,  and  is  drawn  by  many  yoke  of  oxen.  From 
what  the  cure  is  saying  we  gather  that  Sosth^ne  has 
bought  this  very  small  dwelling  from  a  neighbor,  and 
is  moving  it  to  land  of  his  own.  Two  great  beams 
have  been  drawn  under  the  sills  at  each  end,  the  run- 
ning gear  of  two  heavy  ox-wagons  is  made  to  bear  up 
the  four  ends  of  these  beams,  all  is  lashed  firmly  into 
place,  the  oxen  are  slowly  pulling,  the  long  whips  are 
cracking,  the  house  is  answering  the  gentle  traction, 
and,  already  several  miles  away  from  its  first  site,  it 
will  to-morrow  settle  down  upon  new  foundations,  a 
homel}'  type  of  one  whose  wreath  will  soon  be  a-mak- 
ing,  and  who  will  soon  after  come  to  be  the  little 
house's  mistress. 

But  what  have  we  done  —  let  time  slip  backward  ? 
A  little ;  not  much  ;  for  just  then,  as  the  ex-governor 
said,  "And  where  is  Bonaventnre  by  this  time?" 
Bonaventnre  had  been  only  an  hour  or  two  in  the 
Degro-cabin  where  fever  had  dragged  him  down. 

Since  then  the  house  had  not  only  settled  safel}'  upon 
its  new  foundations,  but  Sostht^ne,  in  the  good,  thor- 
ough way  that  was  his  own,  had  carried  renovation  to 


THE    WEDDING.  57 

a  point  that  made  the  cottage  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses a  new  house.  And  the  cure  had  looked  upon  it 
again,  much  nearer  by  ;  for  before  a  bride  dared  enter 
a  house  so  nearly  new,  it  had  been  deemed  necessary 
for  him  to  come  and,  before  a  temporary  altar  within 
the  dwelling,  to  say  mass  in  the  time  of  full  moon. 
But  not  yet  was  the  house  really  a  dwelling ;  it,  and 
all  Carancro,  were  waiting  for  the  wedding.  Make 
haste,  Bonaventure  ! 

He  had  left  the  Teche  behind  him  on  the  east.  And 
now  a  day  breaks  whose  sunset  finds  him  beyond  the 
Vermilion  River.  He  cannot  go  aside  to  the  ex-gover- 
nor's, over  yonder  on  the  right.  He  is  making  haste. 
This  day  his  journey  will  end.  His  heart  is  light ;  he 
has  thought  out  the  whole  matter  now ;  he  makes  no 
doubt  any  longer  that  the  story  told  him  is  true.  And 
he  knows  now  just  what  to  do :  this  very  sunset  he 
will  reach  his  goal ;  he  goes  to  fill  'Thanase's  voided 
place  ;  to  lay  his  own  filial  service  at  the  feet  of  the 
widowed  mother ;  to  be  a  brother  in  the  lost  brother's 
place  ;  and  Zosephine  ?  —  why,  she  shall  be  her  daugliter, 
the  same  as  though  'Thanase,  not  he,  had  won  her. 
And  thus,  too,  Zosephine  shall  have  her  own  sweet 
preference — that  preference  which  she  had  so  often 
whispered  to  him  —  for  a  scholar  rather  than  a  soldier. 
Such  is  the  plan,  and  Conscience  has  given  her 
consent. 

The  sun  soars  far  overhead.  It,  too,  makes  haste. 
But  the  wasted,  flushed,  hungry-eyed  traveller  is  putting 
the  miles  behind  him.  He  questions  none  to-day  that 
pass  him  or  whom  he  overtakes  ;   only  bows,  wipes  his 


58  BONAVENTURE. 

warm  brow,  and  presses  on  across  the  prairie.  Straight 
before  him,  though  still  faraway,  a  small,  white,  wooden 
steeple  rises  from  out  a  tuft  of  trees.  It  is  la  chapelle! 
The  distance  gets  less  and  less.  See  !  the  afternoon 
sunlight  strikes  the  roofs  of  a  few  unpainted  cottages 
that  have  begun  to  show  themselves  at  right  and  left 
of  the  chapel.  And  now  he  sees  the  green  window- 
shutters  of  such  as  are  not  without  them,  and  their 
copperas  or  indigo-dyed  curtains  blowing  in  and  out. 
Nearer ;  nearer ;  here  is  a  house,  and  yonder  another, 
newh'  built.     Carancro  is  reached. 

He  enters  a  turfy,  cattle-haunted  lane  between  rose- 
hedges.  In  a  garden  on  one  side,  and  presently  in 
another  over  the  way,  children  whom  he  remembers  — 
but  orrown  like  weeds  since  he  saw  them  last  —  are  at 
pla}' ;  but  when  they  stop  and  gaze  at  him,  it  is  with- 
out a  sign  of  recognition.  Now  he  walks  down  the 
village  street.  How  empty  it  seems !  was  it  really 
always  so?  Still,  yonder  is  a  man  he  knows — and 
yonder  a  woman  —  but  they  disappear  without  seeing 
him. 

How  familiar  every  thing  is !  There  are  the  two 
shops  abreast  of  the  chapel,  Marx's  on  this  side, 
Lichtenstein's  on  that,  their  dingy  false  fronts  covered 
with  their  same  old  huge  rain-faded  words  of  promise. 
Yonder,  too,  behind  the  blacksmith's  shop,  is  the  little 
schoolhouse,  dirty,  half-ruined,  and  closed  —  that  is, 
wide-open  and  empty  —  it  may  be  for  lack  of  a  teacher, 
or  funds,  or  even  of  scholars. 

"  It  shall  not  be  so,"  said  the  traveller  to  himself, 
"  when  she  and  I  "  — 


THE   WEDDING.  59 

His  steps  grow  slow.  Yet  here,  not  twenty  paces 
before  him,  is  the  home  of  the  cure.  Ah  !  that  is  just 
the  trouble.  Shall  he  go  here  first?  May  he  not  push 
on  and  out  once  more  upon  the  prairie  and  make  him- 
self known  first  of  all  to  Jierf  Stopping  here  first,  will 
not  the  cur6  say  tarry  till  to-morrow?  His  steps  grow 
slower  still. 

And  see,  now.  One  of  the  Jews  in  the  shop  across 
the  street  has  observed  him.  Now  two  stand  together 
and  scrutinize  him  ;  and  now  there  are  three,  looking 
and  smiling.  Plainh',  they  recognize  him.  One  starts 
to  come  across,  but  on  that  instant  the  quiet  of  the 
hamlet  is  broken  by  a  sound  of  galloping  hoofs. 

Bonaventure  stands  still.  How  sudden  is  this 
change  !  He  is  not  noticed  now  ;  every  thing  is  in 
the  highest  animation.  There  are  loud  calls  and  out- 
cries ;  children  are  shouting  and  running,  and  women's 
heads  are  thrust  out  of  doors  and  windows.  Horse- 
men come  dashing  into  the  village  around  through  the 
lanes  and  up  the  street.  Look  !  they  wheel,  they  rein 
up,  they  throw  themselves  from  the  rattling  saddles  ; 
they  leave  the  big  wooden  stirrups  swinging  and  the 
little  unkempt  ponies  shaking  themselves,  and  rush  into 
the  boutique  de  Monsieur  Lichtenstein,  and  are  talking 
like  mad  and  decking  themselves  out  on  hats  and 
shoulders  with  ribbons  in  all  colors  of  the  rainbow  ! 

Suddenly  they  shout,  all  together,  in  answer  to  a 
shout  outside.  More  horsemen  appear.  Lichtenstein's 
store  belches  ail  its  population. 

"  La  caUge !    La  calege !  "     The  caleche  is  coming  ! 

Something,  he  knows  not  what,  makes  Bonaventure 
tremble. 


60  BONAVENTURE. 

"  Madame,"  he  sa^^s  in  French  to  a  chattering 
woman  who  has  just  run  out  of  her  door,  and  is 
standing  near  him  tying  a  red  Madras  kerchief  on  her 
head  as  she  prattles  to  a  girl,  —  "  madame,  what 
wedding  is  this?  " 

"  C'e^t  la  noce  d  Zos(^^phine,"  she  replies,  without 
looking  at  him,  and  goes  straight  on  telling  her  conir 
panion  how  fifty  dollars  has  been  paid  for  the  Pope's 
dispensation,  because  the  bridal  pair  are  first  cousins. 

Bonaventure  moves  back  and  leans  against  a  paling 
fence,  pallid  and  faint.  But  there  is  no  time  to  notice 
him  —  look,  look  ! 

Some  women  on  horseback  come  trotting  into  the 
street.  Cheers !  cheers !  and  in  a  moment  louder 
cheers  yet  —  the  caliche  with  the  bride  and  groom 
and  another  with  the  parents  have  come. 

Throw  open  the  church  door  ! 

Horsemen  alight,  horsewomen  descend ;  down,  also, 
come  they  that  were  in  the  caltiche.  Look,  Bonaven- 
ture !  They  form  by  twos  —  forward  —  in  they  go. 
*' Hats  off,  gentlemen!  Don't  forget  the  rule!  — 
Now  —  silence!  softly,  softly;  speak  low  —  or  speak 
not  at  all ;  sh-sh  !  Silence  !  The  pair  are  kneeling. 
Hush-sh !  Frown  down  that  little  buzz  about  the 
door!     Sh-sh!" 

Bonaventure  has  rushed  in  with  the  crowd.  He 
cannot  see  the  kneeling  pair ;  but  there  is  the  cur6 
standing  over  them  and  performing  the  holy  rite.  The 
priest  stops  —  he  has  seen  Bonaventure  !  He  stam- 
mers, and  then  he  goes  on.  Here  beside  Bonaventure 
is  a  girl  so  absorbed   in  the  scene   that   she   thinks 


THE    WEDDING.  61 

she  is  speaking  to  her  brother,  when  presently  she 
says  to  the  haggard  young  stranger,  letting  herself 
down  from  her  tiptoes  and  drawing  a  long  breath : 

"  La  sarimonie  est  fait.'' 

It  is  true ;  the  ceremony  is  ended.  She  rises  on 
tiptoe  again  to  see  the  new  couple  sign  the  papers. 

Slowly  !  The  bridgroom  first,  his  mark.  Step  back. 
Now  the  little  bride  —  steady  !  Zosephine,  sa  marque. 
She  turns  ;  see  her,  everybody ;  see  her !  brown  and 
pretty  as  a  doe  !  They  are  kissing  her.  Hail,  Madame 
'Thanase  ! 

"Make  way,  make  way!"  The  man  and  wife 
come  forth.  —  Ah  !  'Thanase  Beausoleil,  so  tall  and 
strong,  so  happy  and  hale,  you  do  not  look  to-day  like 
the  poor  decoyed,  drugged  victim  that  woke  up  one 
morning  out  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  to  find  3'ourself, 
without  fore-intent  or  knowledge,  one  of  a  ship's 
crew  bound  for  Brazil  and  thence  to  the  Mediterra- 
nean !  — "  Make  wa}',  make  way  !  "  They  mount  the 
caliches,  Sosth^ne  after  Madame  Sosth^ne  ;  'Thanase 
after  Madame  'Thanase.  "  To  horse,  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen !  "  Never  mind  now  about  the  youth  who  has 
been  taken  ill  in  the  chapel,  and  whom  the  cure  has 
borne  almost  bodily  in  his  arms  to  his  own  house. 
"Mount!  Mount!  Move  aside  for  the  wedding 
singers!" — The  wedding  singers  take  their  places, 
one  on  this  side  the  bridal  caleche,  the  other  on  that, 
and  away  it  starts,  creaking  and  groaning. 

"  Mais,  arretez !  —  Stop,  stop  !  Before  going,  passez 
le  'nisette! — pass  the  anisette!"  May  the  New- 
Orleans  compounder  be  forgiven  the  iniquitous  mix- 


62  B  ON  A  VEN  T  URE. 

ture  !  '-'- Boir  les  dames  avant !  —  Let  the  ladies  drink 
first !  "     Aham  !  straight  from  the  bottle. 

Now,  go.  The  caleche  moves.  Other  calechcs 
bearing  parental  and  grandparental  couples  follow. 
And  now  the  young  men  and  maidens  gallop  after ; 
the  cavalcade  stretches  out  like  the  afternoon  shadows, 
and  with  shout  and  sons;  and  waving  of  hats  and  ker- 
chiefs,  awa}^  they  go  !  while  from  window  and  door 
and  village  street  follows  the  wedding  cry : 

"  Acljieu,  la  calege!  Acljieu.  la  calege!  —  God  speed 
the  wedding  pair !  " 

Coming  at  first  from  the  villagers,  it  is  continued  at 
length,  faint  and  far,  by  the  attending  cavaliers.  As 
mile  by  mile  they  drop  aside,  singh'  or  in  pairs,  toward 
their  homes,  they  rise  in  their  stirrups,  and  lifting  high 
their  ribbon-decked  hats,  they  shout  and  curvette  and 
curvette  and  shout  until  the  eye  loses  them,  and  the 
ear  can  barely  catch  the  faint  farewell ; 

"  Adjieu,  la  calege!     Adjieu,  les  mariees!  " 


CHAPTER    X. 


AFTER    ALL. 


Adieu  ;  but  only  till  the  fall  of  night  shall  bring 
the  wedding  ball. 

One  little  tune  —  and  every  Acadian  fiddler  in 
Louisiana  knows  it  —  always  brings  back  to  Zos^phine 
the  opening  scene  of  that  festive  and  jocund  convoca- 


AFTER  ALL.  63 

tion.  She  sees  again  the  great  clean-swept  seed-cotton 
room  of  a  cotton-gin  house  belonging  to  a  cousin  of 
the  ex-governor,  lighted  with  man}'  caudles  stuck  into 
a  perfect  wealth  of  black  bottles  ranged  along  the 
beams  of  the  walls.  The  fiddler's  seat  is  mounted  on 
a  table  in  the  corner,  the  fiddler  is  in  it,  each  beau  has 
led  a  maiden  into  the  floor,  the  sets  are  made  for  the 
contra-dance,  the  3'oung  men  stand  expectant,  their 
partners  wait  with  downcast  e3^es  and  mute  lips  as 
Acadian  damsels  should,  the  music  strikes  up,  and 
away  they  go. 

Yes,  Zosephine  sees  the  whole  bright  scene  over  again 
whenever  that  strain  sounds. 


f 


^— ^—g 


zpnr^.z^ 


i 


-#—•.—, -T.— r^— »— a ^ ^-H* fi ^ 


B.C. 


j=liii^z^;z=Si^_>_^^^^^^^=p 


^^^H^^^ 


It  was  fine  from  first  to  last !  The  ball  closed  with 
the  bride's  dance.  Many  a  daughter  Madame  Sosthene 
had  waltzed  that  farewell  measure  with,  and  now 
Zosephine  was  the  last.  So  they  danced  it,  they  two, 
all  the  crowd  looking  on :  the  one  so  young  and  lost 
in  self,  the  other  so  full  of  years  and  lost  to  self  ; 
eddying  round  and  round  each  other  in  this  last  bright 
embrace  before  they  part,  the  mother  to  swiug  back 
into  still  water,  the  child  to  enter  the  current  of  a  new 
life. 

And  then  came  the  wedding  supper !     At  one  end  of 


64  BONAVEXTURE. 

the  lonij  table  the  bride  and  groom  sat  side  by  side, 
and  at  their  left  and  right  the  wedding  singers  stood 
and  sang.  In  each  corner  of  the  room  there  was  a 
barrel  of  roasted  sweet  potatoes.  How  everybod}^  ate, 
that  night !  Rice  !  beef-balls  !  pass  them  here  !  pass 
them  there !  help  yourself !  reach  them  with  a  fork ! 
cles  riz !  des  houlettes !  more  down  this  way  !  pass  them 
over  heads  !  des  riz!  des  houlettes!  And  the  anisette  ! 
—  bad  whiskey  and  oil  of  anise  —  never  mind  that ; 
pour,  fill,  empty,  fill  again  !  Don't  take  too  much  — 
and  make  sure  not  to  take  too  little  !  How  merrily  all 
went  on  !     How  ga}'  was  Zos^phine  ! 

"  Does  she  know  that  Bonaventure,  too,  has  come 
back?"  the  young  maidens  whisper,  one  to  another; 
for  the  news  was  afloat. 

"  Oh,  yes.  of  course;  some  one  had  to  let  it  slip. 
But  if  it  makes  any  difference,  she  is  only  brighter 
and  prettier  than  before.  I  tell  you  —  it  seems  strange, 
but  I  believe,  now,  she  never  cared  for  anybod}'  but 
'Thanase.  When  she  heard  Bonaventure  had  come 
back,  she  only  let  one  little  flash  out  of  her  eyes  at  the 
fool  who  told  her,  then  said  it  was  the  best  news  that 
could  be,  and  has  been  as  serene  as  the  picture  of  a 
saint  ever  since." 

The  serenity  of  the  bride  might  have  been  less  per- 
fect, and  the  one  flash  of  her  eyes  might  have  been 
two,  had  she  known  what  the  cur6  was  that  minute 
saying  to  the  returned  wanderer,  with  the  youth's  head 
pressed  upon  his  bosom,  in  the  seclusion  of  his  own 
chamber : 

"  It  is  all  for  the  best,  Bonaventure.     It  is  not  pos- 


AFTER  ALL.  65 

sible  that  thou  shouldst  see  it  so  now,  but  thou  shalt 
hereafter.  It  is  best  this  way."  And  the  tears  rolled 
silently  down  his  cheek  as  the  weary  head  in  his 
bosom  murmured  back  : 

"  It  is  best.     It  is  best." 

The  cure  could  only  press  him  closer  then.  It  was 
much  more  than  a  year  afterward  when  he  for  the  first 
time  ventured  to  add  : 

"  I  never  wanted  you  to  get  her,  my  dear  boy  ;  she 
is  not  your  kind  at  all  —  nay,  now,  let  me  say  it,  since 
I  have  kept  it  unsaid  so  long  and  patiently.  Do  you 
imagine  she  could  ever  understand  an  unselfish  life, 
or  even  one  that  tried  to  be  unselfish?  She  makes 
an  excellent  Madame  'Thanase.  'Thanase  is  a  good, 
vigorous,  faithful,  gentle  animal,  that  knows  how  to 
graze  and  lie  in  the  shade  and  get  up  and  graze  again. 
But  you  —  it  is  not  in  you  to  know  how  poor  a  Madame 
Bonaventure  she  would  have  been  ;  not  now  merely, 
but  poorer  and  poorer  as  the  years  go  by. 

''And  so  I  say,  do  not  go  away.  I  know  why  you 
want  to  go ;  you  want  to  run  away  from  a  haunting 
thouglit  that  some  unlikely  accident  or  other  may  leave 
Madame  'Thanase  a  widow,  and  you  step  into  his  big 
shoes.  They  would  not  fit.  Do  not  go.  That  thing 
is  not  going  to  happen  ;  and  the  way  to  get  rid  of  the 
troublesome  notion  is  to  stay  and  see  yourself  outgrow 
it  —  and  her." 

Bonaventure  shook  his  head  mournfully,  but  staid. 
From  time  to  time  Madame  'Thanase  passed  before 
his  view  in  pursuit  of  her  outdoor  and  indoor  cares. 
But  even  when  he  came  under  her  galerie  roof  he  could 


66  B  ON  A  VENTURE. 

see  that  she  never  doubted  she  had  made  the  very  best 
choice  in  all  Carancro. 

And  yet  people  knew  —  she  knew  —  that  Bonavcn- 
ture  not  only  enjoyed  the  acquaintance,  but  sometimes 
actually  went  from  one  place  to  another  on  the  business, 
of  the  great  ex-governor.  Small  raattcis  they  may 
have  been,  but,  anyhow,  just  think  ! 

Sometimes  as  he  so  went  or  came  he  saw  her  squat- 
ting on  a  board  at  the  edge  of  a  coolee,  her  petticoat 
wrapped  snugly  around  her  limbs,  and  a  limp  sun-bon- 
net hiding  her  nut-brown  face,  pounding  her  washing 
with  a  wooden  paddle.  She  was  her  own  housekeeper, 
chambermaid,  cook,  washerwoman,  gooseherd,  seam- 
stress, nurse,  and  all  the  rest.  Her  floors,  they  said, 
were  always  bien  fourhis  (well  scrubbed)  ;  her  beds 
were  high,  soft,  snug,  and  covered  with  the  white  mesh 
of  her  own  crochet-needle. 

He  saw  her  the  oftener  because  she  worked  much  out 
on  her  low  veranda.  From  that  place  she  had  a  broad 
outlook  upon  the  world,  with  'Thanase  in  the  fore- 
ground, at  his  toil,  sometimes  at  his  sport.  His  cares 
as  a  herder,  vacheur,  —  vache^  he  called  it,  —  were 
wherever  his  slender-horned  herds  might  roam  or  his 
stallions  lead  their  mares  in  search  of  the  sweetest 
herbage  ;  and  when  rains  filled  the  maraises,  and  the 
cold  nor' westers  blew  from  Texas  and  the  sod  was 
spongy  with  much  water,  and  he  went  out  for  feathered 
game,  the  numberless  mallards,  black  ducks,  gray 
ducks,  teal  —  with  sometimes  the  canvas-back — and 
the  poules-cV eau  —  the  water-hens  and  the  rails,  and  the 
cache-cache  —  the  snipe  —  were  as  likelj'  to  settle  or 


AFTER  ALL.  67 

rise  just  before  bis  own  bouse  as  elsewbere,  and  tbe 
most  devastating  sbot  tbat  burtled  tbroiigb  tbose 
featbered  multitudes  was  tbat  sent  by  ber  busband  — 
hers  —  ber  own  —  possessive  case  —  belonging  to  ber. 
She  was  proud  of  her  property. 

Sometimes  la  vieille  —  for  she  was  la  vieille  from 
the  very  day  that  she  counted  her  wedding  presents, 
mostly  chickens,  and  turned  them  loose  in  tbe  dooryard 
—  sometimes  she  enjoyed  tbe  fine  excitement  of  seeing 
her  vieux  catching  and  branding  his  yearling  colts. 
Small  but  not  uncomely  they  were  :  tougher,  stronger, 
better  when  broken,  than  the  mustang,  though,  like 
the  mustang,  begotten  and  foaled  on  the  open  prairie. 
Often  she  saw  him  catch  two  for  the  plough  in  the 
morning,  turn  them  loose  at  noon  to  find  their  own 
food  and  drink,  and  catch  and  work  another  pair 
through  the  afternoon.  So  what  did  not  give  her 
pride  gave  her  quiet  comfort.  Sometimes  she  looked 
forth  with  an  anxious  eye,  when  a  colt  was  to  be 
broken  for  the  saddle  ;  for  as  its  legs  were  untied,  and 
it  sprang  to  its  feet  with  'Thanase  in  the  saddle,  and 
the  blindfold  was  removed  from  its  eyes,  tbe  strain  on 
tbe  3'oung  wife's  nerves  was  as  much  as  was  good,  to 
see  tbe  creature's  tremendous  leaps  in  air  and  not 
tremble  for  its  superb,  unmovable  rider. 

Could  scholarship  be  finer  than  —  or  as  fine  as  —  such 
horsemanship?  And  3'et,  somehow,  as  time  ran  on, 
Zosephine,  like  all  tbe  rest  of  Carancro,  began  to  look 
up  with  a  certain  deference,  half-conscious,  half- 
unconscious,  to  the  needy  3'oung  man  who  was  no- 
body's love  or  lover,  and  yet,  in  a  gentle,  unimpassioned 


68  BONAVENTURE. 

wa}',  everybody's  ;  landless,  penniless,  artless  Bona- 
venture,  who  honestly  thought  there  was  no  girl  in 
Carancro  who  was  not  much  too  good  for  him,  and  of 
whom  there  was  not  one  who  did  not  think  him  much 
too  good  for  her.  He  was  quite  outside  of  all  their 
gossip.  How  could  they  know  that  with  all  his  learn- 
ing—  for  he  could  read  and  write  in  two  languages 
and  took  the  Vermilionville  newspaper  —  and  with  all 
his  books,  almost  an  entire  mantel-shelf  full  —  he  was 
feeling  heart-hunger  the  same  as  any  ordinary  lad  or 
lass  unmated?  Zosephine  found  her  eyes,  so  to  speak, 
liftiuor,  liftino-,  more  and  more  as  from  time  to  time  she 
looked  upon  the  inoffensive  Bouaventure.  But  so  her 
satisfaction  in  her  own  husband  was  all  the  more  em- 
phatic. If  she  had  ever  caugiit  a  real  impulse  toward 
any  thing  that  even  Carancro  would  have  called  culture, 
she  had  cast  it  aside  now  —  as  to  herself ;  her  children 
—  oh!  yes;  but  that  would  be  by  and  by. 

Even  of  pastimes  and  sports  she  saw  almost  none. 
For  'Thanase  there  was,  first  of  all,  his  fiddle  ;  then 
la  chasse,  the  chase  ;  the  papegaie,  or,  as  he  called  it, 
jmd-go — the  shooting-match;  la  gallocJte^  pitch-farth- 
ing ;  the  cock-fight ;  the  five-arpent  pony-race ;  and 
too  often,  also,  chin-chin^  twenty-five-cent  poker,  and 
the  gossip  and  glass  of  the  roadside  "store."  But  for 
Madame  'Thanase  there  was  only  a  seat  against  the 
wall  at  the  Saturday-night  dance,  and  mass  d.  la  cha- 
pelle  once  in  two  or  three  weeks ;  these,  and  infant 
baptisms.  These  showed  how  fast  time  and  life  were 
hurrying  along.  The  wedding  seemed  but  yesterday, 
and  yet  here  was  little  Sosth^ne,  and  tiny  Marguerite, 


AFTER   ALL.  69 

and  cooing  Zosepliine  the  younger  —  how  fast  history 
repeats  itself ! 

But  one  day,  one  Sunday,  it  repeated  itself  in  a 
different  way.  'Thanase  was  in  gay  humor  that  morn- 
ing. He  kissed  his  wife,  tossed  his  children,  played 
on  his  fiddle  that  tune  they  all  liked  best,  and,  while 
Zosepliine  looked  after  him  with  young  zest  in  her  eye, 
sprang  into  the  saddle  and  galloped  across  the  prairie 
d,  la  cliapelle  to  pass  a  jolly  forenoon  at  chin-chin  in  the 
village  grocery. 

Since  the  war  almost  ever}'  one  went  armed  —  not 
for  attack,  of  course  ;  for  defence.  'Thanase  was  an 
exception. 

"My  fists,"  he  said,  in  the  good  old  drawling 
Acadian  dialect  and  with  his  accustomed  smile,  — 
"my  fists  will  take  care  of  me." 

One  of  the  party  that  made  up  the  game  with 
'Thanase  was  the  fellow  whom  you  may  remember  as 
having  brought  that  first  news  of  'Thanase  from  camp 
to  Carancro,  and  whom  Zosephine  had  discredited. 
The  young  husband  had  never  liked  him  since. 

But,  as  I  say,  'Thanase  was  in  high  spirits.  His 
jests  came  thick  and  fast,  and  some  were  hard  and 
personal,  and  some  were  barbed  with  truth,  and  one, 
at  length,  ended  in  the  word  "  deserter."  The  victim 
grew  instantly  fierce  and  red,  leaped  up  crying  "Liar," 
and  was  knocked  backward  to  the  ground  by  the  long- 
reaching  fist  of  'Thanase.  He  rose  again  and  dashed 
at  his  assailant.  The  rest  of  the  company  hastily 
made  way  to  right  and  left,  chairs  were  overturned, 
over  went  the  table,  the  cards  were  underfoot.     Men 


70  BONAVENTURE. 

ran  in  from  outside  and  from  over  the  way.  The  two 
foes  clash  together,  'Thanase  smites  again  with  his 
fist,  and  the  other  grapples.     They  tug  and  strain  — 

"  Separate  them  !  "  cry  two  or  three  of  the  packed 
crowd  in  suppressed  earnestness.  "Separate  them! 
Bouaventure  is  coming  !  And  here  from  the  other  side 
the  cure  too!  Oh,  get  them  apart!"  But  the  half- 
hearted interference  is  shaken  off.  'Thanase  sees 
Bouaventure  and  the  cur6  enter ;  mortification  smites 
him  ;  a  smothered  cry  of  rage  bursts  from  his  lips  ;  he 
tries  to  hurl  his  antagonist  from  him  ;  and  just  as  the 
two  friends  reach  out  to  la}'  hands  upon  the  wrestling 
mass,  it  goes  with  a  great  thud  to  the  ground.  The 
crowd  recoils  and  springs  back  again  ;  then  a  cry  of 
amazement  and  horror  from  all  around,  the  arm  of  the 
uuder  man  lifted  out  over  the  back  of  the  other,  a 
downward  flash  of  steel  —  another  —  and  another  !  the 
long,  subsiding  wail  of  a  strong  man's  sudden  despair, 
the  voice  of  one  crying,  — 

"  Zos^phine !  Ah!  Zos6phine !  ma  vieille!  ma 
vieiUe!"  —  one  long  moan  and  sigh,  and  the  finest 
horseman,  the  sweetest  musician,  the  bravest  soldier, 
yes,  and  the  best  husband,  in  all  Carancro,  was  dead. 

Poor  old  Sosthene  and  his  wife !  How  hard  they 
tried,  for  days,  for  weeks,  to  comfort  their  widowed 
child !  But  in  vain.  Day  and  night  she  put  them 
away  in  fierce  grief  and  silence,  or  if  she  s[)oke  wailed 
always  the  one  implacable  answer, — 

"  I  want  my  husband  !  "  And  to  the  cur6  the  same 
words,  — 

''  Go  tell  God  I  want  my  husband !  " 


AFTER  ALL.  71 

But  when  at  last  earae  one  who,  having  come  to 
speak,  could  onl}'  hold  her  hand  in  his  and  silently 
weep  with  her,  she  clung  to  his  with  both  her  own,  and 
looking  up  into  his  young,  thin  face,  cried, — not  with 
grace  of  words,  and  yet  with  some  grace  in  all  her 
words'  Acadian  ruggedness,  — 

"  Bonaventure !  Ah !  Bonav^enture !  thou  who 
kuowest  the  way  —  teach  me,  my  brother,  how  to  be 
patient." 

And  so  —  though  the  ex-governor  had  just  offered 
him  a  mission  in  another  part  of  the  Acadiaus'  land, 
a  mission,  as  he  thought,  far  be^^ond  his  deserving, 
though,  in  fact,  so  humble  that  to  tell  you  what  it  was 
would  force  your  smile  —  he  staid. 

A  year  went  by,  and  then  another.  Zosephine  no 
longer  lifted  to  heaven  a  mutinous  and  aggrieved 
countenance.  Bonaventure  was  often  nigh,  and  his 
words  were  a  deep  comfort.  Yet  often,  too,  her  spirit 
flashed  impatience  through  her  eyes  when  in  the  childish 
philosophizing  of  which  he  was  so  fond  he  put  forward 
—  though  ever  so  impersonally  and  counting  himself 
least  of  all  to  have  attained  —  the  precepts  of  self- 
conquest  and  abnegation.  And  then  as  the  flash  passed 
away,  with  a  moisture  of  the  eye  repudiated  by  the 
pride  of  the  lip,  she  would  slowly  shake  her  head  and 
say : 

"It  is  of  no  use;  I  can't  do  it!  I  may  be  too 
3'oung  —  I  may  be  too  bad,  but  —  I  can't  learn  it !  " 

At  last,  one  September  evening,  Bonaventure  stood 
at  the  edge  of  Sosth^ne's  galerie,  whither  Zosephine 
had  followed  out,  leavins:  le  vieux  and  la  vieille  in  the 


72  BONAVENTURE. 

house.  On  tlie  morrow  Bonaventure  was  to  leave 
Carancro.     And  now  he  said, — 

"  Zos6phine,  I  must  go." 

"Ah,  Bonaventure!"  she  replied,  "  mj^  children  — 
what  will  m}^  children  do?  It  is  not  only  tliat  you 
have  taught  them  to  spell  and  read,  though  God  will 
be  good  to  you  for  that !  But  these  two  years  you 
have  been  every  thing  to  them  —  everything.  They 
will  be  orphaned  over  again,  Bonaventure."  Tears 
shone  in  her  eyes,  and  she  turned  away  her  face  with 
her  dropped  hands  clasped  together. 

The  young  man  laid  his  hand  upon  her  drooping 
brow.  She  turned  again  and  lifted  her  eyes  to  his. 
His  lips  moved  silently,  but  she  read  upon  them  the 
unheard  utterance  :  it  was  a  word  of  blessing  and  fare- 
well. Slowly  and  tenderly  she  drew  down  his  hand, 
laid  a  kiss  upon  it,  and  said,  — 

'•'■  Adjieu  —  adjieu,''  and  they  parted. 

As  Zosephine,  with  erect  form  and  firm,  clear  tread, 
went  by  her  parents  and  into  the  inner  room  where  her 
children  lay  in  their  trundle-bed,  the  old  mother  said 
to  le  vieux,  — 

"  You  can  go  ahead  and  repair  the  schoolhouse  now. 
Our  daughter  will  want  to  begin,  even  to-morrow,  to 
teach  the  children  of  the  village  —  les  zonfants  ci  la 
cJiapelle.^^ 

*'You  think  so?"  said  Sosth^ne,  but  not  as  if  he 
doubted. 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  certain  now  that  Zosephine  will  always 
remain  the  Widow  'Thanase." 


GRANDE    POINTE. 


CHAPTER    I. 


A    STRANGER. 


From  College  Point  to  Bell's  Point,  sixty  miles 
above  New  Orleans,  the  Mississippi  runs  nearly  from 
west  to  east.  Both  banks,  or  "  coasts,"  are  lined  with 
large  and  famous  sugar-plantations.  Midway  on  the 
northern  side,  lie  the  beautiful  estates  of  ''  Belmont'* 
and  ''Belle  Alliance."  Early  one  morning  in  the 
middle  of  October,  1878,  a  young  man,  whose  age  you 
would  have  guessed  fifteen  years  too  much,  stood  in 
scrupulously  clean,  ill-fitting,  flimsy  garments,  on  the 
strong,  high  levee  overlooking  these  two  plantations. 
He  was  asking  the  way  to  a  place  called  Grande  Pointe. 
Grand  Point,  he  called  it,  and  so  may  we :  many 
names  in  Louisiana  that  retain  the  French  spelling  are 
habitually  given  an  English  pronunciation. 

A  tattered  negro  mounted  on  a  sunburnt,  unshod, 
bare-backed  mule,  down  in  the  dusty  gray  road  on  the 
land-side  of  the  embankment,  was  his  only  hearer. 
Fifteen  years  earlier  these  two  men,  with  French  ac- 
cents, strangers  to  each  other,  would  hardly  have  con- 
versed in  English ;   but  the  date  made  the  difference. 

73 


74  BONAVENTURE. 

We  need  not  inexorably  render  the  dialect  of  the  white 
man  ;  pretty  enough  to  hear,  it  would  often  be  hideous 
to  print.  The  letter  r,  for  instance,  that  plague  of  all 
nations  —  before  consonants  it  disappeared  ;  before 
vowels  the  tongue  failed  of  that  upward  curve  that 
makes  the  good  strong  r's  of  Ital}'  and  Great  Britain. 

The  negro  pointed  over  his  mule's  ears. 

"You  see  Belle  Alliance  sugah-house  yondeh? 
Well,  behine  dah  you  line  one  road  go  stret  thoo  the 
plantation  till  de  wood.  Dass  'bout  mile,  you  know. 
Den  she  keep  stret  on  thoo  de  wood  'bout  two  mile' 
mo',  an'  dat  fetch  you  at  Gran'  Point'.  Hole  on; 
1  show  you." 

The  two  men  started  down  the  road,  the  negro  on 
his  mule,  the  stranger  along  the  levee's  crown. 

"Dat  Gran'  Point',"  resumed  the  black;  " 'tain't 
no  point  on  de  riveh,  you  know,  like  dat  Bell'  Point, 
w'at  you  see  yondeh  'twixt  dem  ah  batture  willows 
whah  de  sun  all  spread  out  on  the  wateh  ;  no,  seh. 
*Tis  jis  lil  place  back  in  de  swamp^  raise'  'bout  five, 
six  feet  'bove  de  wateh.  Yes,  seh;  'bout  free  mile' 
long,  'alf  mile  wide.  Don't  nobody  but  Cajun'  ^  live 
back  dah.     Seem  droll  you  goin'  yondeh." 

"  'Tis  the  reason  I  go,"  said  the  other,  without 
looking  up. 

"  Yes,  seh."  — -A  short  silence,  —  "  Dass  nigh  fifty 
year',  now,  dat  place  done  been  settle'.  Ole  'Mian 
Roussel  he  was  gret  hunter.  He  know  dat  place.  He 
see  'tis  rich  groun'.  One  da}'  he  come  dare,  cut  some 
tree',  bull'  house,  plant  lil  tobahcah.     Nex'  year  come 

1  Acadiaos. 


A    STRANGER.  75 

ole  man  Le  Blanc  ;  den  Poche,  den  St.  Pierre,  den 
Martin,  —  all  Cajun'.  Oh!  dass  mo' n  fifty  year'  'go. 
Dey  all  comes  from  dis  yeh  riveh  coast ;  'caze  de  rich 
Creole',  dey  bny  'em  out.  Yes,  seh,  dat  use'  be  de 
Cote  AcacUen\  right  yeh  whar  yo'  feet  stan'in'  on. 
G'est  la  cote  Acadien',  just  ici,  oui.'"  The  trudging 
stranger  waived  away  the  right  of  translation.  He  had 
some  reason  for  preferring  English.  But  his  manner 
was  very  gentle,  and  in  a  moment  the  negro  began 
again. 

"  Gret  place,  dat  Gran'  Point'.  Yes,  seh;  fo' 
tobahcah.  Dey  make  de  bes'  Perique  tobahcah  in  de 
worl'.  Yes,  seh,  right  yond'  at  Gran'  Point'  ;  an' 
de  bes'  Perique  w'at  come  from  Gran'  Point',  dass  de 
Perique  of  Octave  Roussel,  w'at  dey  use  call  'im  Chat- 
oue  ;  ^  but  he  git  tired  dat  name,  and  now  he  got  HI 
boy  'bout  twenuy-five  year'  ole,  an'  dey  call  de  ole 
man  Catou,  an'  call  his  lil  bof/  Chat-oue.  Dey  fine  dat 
wuck  mo'  betteh.  Yes,  seh.  An'  he  got  bruddeh 
name'  'Mian  Roussel.  But  dat  not  de  ole,  ole  'Mian 
—  like  dey  say  de  ole  he  one.  'Caze,  j'ou  know,  he 
done  peg  out.  Oh,  yes,  he  peg  out  in  de  du'in' 
o'  de  waugh.-  But  he  lef  heap-sight  chillen ;  3'ou 
know,  he  got  a  year'  staht  o'  all  de  res',  you  know. 
Yes,  seh.  Dey  got  'bout  hund'ed  fifty  peop'  3'ond' 
b}"  Gran'  Point',  and  sim  like  dey  mos'  all  name 
Roussel.  Sim  dat  wa}'  to  me.  An'  ev'3'  las'  one 
got  a  lil  fahm  so  lil  you  can't  plow  her ;  got  dig  her 
up  wid  a  spade.  Yes,  seh,  same  like  you  diggin' 
grave  ;  yes,  seh." 

1  Raccoou.  2  During  the  war. 


76  B  ON  A  VEN  r  UR  E. 

The  gentle  stranger  interrupted,  still  without  lifting 
his  eyes  from  the  path.  "  'Tis  better  narrowness  of 
land  than  of  virtue."     The  negro  responded  eagerl}^ : 

"  Oh,  de}'  good  sawt  o'  peop',  yes.  Dey  deals  fair 
an'  dey  deals  square.  Dey  keeps  de  peace.  Dass 
'caze  dey  mos'ly  don't  let  whisky  git  on  deir  blin'  side, 
you  know.  Dey  does  love  to  dance,  and  dey  marries 
mawnstus  j^oung  ;  but  dey  not  like  some  niggehs  :  dey 
stays  married.  An'  modess?  Dey  dcss  so  modess 
dey  shy!  Yes,  seh,  dey  de  shyes',  casy-goin'es', 
modesses',  most  p'esumin'  peop'  in  de  whole  w^orl'  ! 
I  don't  see  fo'  why  folks  talk  'gin  dem  Cajun'  ;  on'y 
dey  a  lil  bit  slow." 

The  traveller  on  the  levee's  top  suddenly  stood  still, 
a  soft  glow  on  his  cheek,  a  distension  in  his  blue  eyes. 
''  My  friend,  what  was  it,  the  first  American  industry? 
"Was  it  not  the  Newfoundland  fisheries?  Who  inaugu- 
'ate  them,  if  not  the  fishermen  of  Normandy  and 
Bretagne?  And  since  how  long?  Nearly  fo'  hundred 
years !  ' ' 

"Dass  so,  boss,"  exclaimed  the  negro  with  the 
promptitude  of  an  eye-witness  ;  but  the  stranger  con- 
tinued :  — 

"The  ancestors  of  the  Acadian'  —  they  are  the 
fathers  of  the  codfish!"     He  resumed  his  walk. 

"  Dass  so,  seh  ;  dass  true.  Yes,  seh,  you'  talkin' 
mighty  true;  dey  a  pow'ful  ancestrified  peop',  dem 
Cajun'  ;  dass  w'at  make  dey  so  shy,  you  know.  An' 
dey  mighty  good  han'  in  de  sugah-house.  Dey  des 
watchin',  now,  w'en  dat  sugah-cane  git  ready  fo'  biggin 
to  grind ;  so  soon  dey  see  dat,  dey  des  come  a-lopin' 


IN  A   STRANGE  LAND.  77 

in  here  to  Mistoo  "Wallis'  sugah-bouse  here  at  Belle 
Alliance,  an'  likewise  to  Marse  Louis  Le  Bourgeois 
3'oncr  at  Belmont.  You  see  !  cle  fust  t'ing  dey  gwiue 
ass  3-0U  when  you  come  at  Gran'  Point'  —  'Is  Mistoo 
Wallis  biggin  to  grind?'  Well,  seh,  like  1  tell  you, 
yeh  de  sugah-house,  an'  dah  de  road.  Dat  road  fetch 
you  at  Gran'  Point'." 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN    A    STRANGE    LAND. 


An  hour  later  the  stranger,  quite  alone,  had  left 
behind  him  the  broad  smooth  road,  between  rustling 
walls  of  sugar-cane,  that  had  brought  him  through 
Belle  Alliance  plantation.  The  way  before  him  was 
little  more  than  a  bridle-path  along  the  earth  thrown 
up  beside  a  drainiug-ditch  in  a  dense  swamp.  The 
eye  could  run  but  a  little  way  ere  it  was  confused  by 
the  tangle  of  vegetation.  The  trees  of  the  all-surround- 
ing forest — sweet-gums,  water-oaks,  magnolias  —  cast 
their  shade  obliquely  along  and  across  his  way,  and 
wherever  it  fell  the  undried  dew  still  sparkled  on  the 
long  grass. 

A  pervading  whisper  seemed  to  say  good-by  to  the 
great  human  world.  Scarce  the  note  of  an  insect 
joined  with  his  footsteps  in  the  coarse  herbage  to  break 
the  stillness.  He  made  no  haste.  P'erns  were  often 
about  his  feet,  and  vines  were  both  there  and  Gxery- 


78  BONAVENTURE. 

where.  The  soft  blue  tufts  of  the  ageratum  were  on 
each  side  continually.  Here  and  there  in  wet  places 
clumps  of  Indian-shot  spread  their  pale  scroll  leaves 
and  sent  up  their  green  and  scarlet  spikes.  Of  stature 
sreater  than  his  own  the  golden-rod  stood,  crested  with 
yellow  plumes,  unswayed  by  the  still  air.  Often  he 
had  to  push  apart  the  brake-canes  and  press  through 
with  bowed  head.  Nothing  met  him  in  the  path.  Now 
and  then  there  were  faint  signs  underfoot  as  if  wheels 
might  have  crushed  the  ragged  turf  long  weeks  before. 
Now  and  then  the  print  of  a  hoof  was  seen  in  the 
black  soil,  but  a  spider  had  made  it  her  home  and 
spread  across  it  her  silken  snares.  If  he  halted  and 
hearkened,  he  heard  far  away  the  hawk  screaming  to 
his  mate,  and  maybe,  looking  up,  caught  a  glimpse  of 
him  sailing  in  the  upper  air  with  the  sunlight  glowing 
in  his  pinions  ;  or  in  some  bush  near  by  heard  the  soft 
rustle  of  the  wren,  or  the  ruffling  whiff  and  nervous 
"chip  "  of  the  cardinal,  or  saw  for  an  instant  the  flirt 
of  his  crimson  robes  as  he  rattled  the  stiff,  jagged  fans 
of  the  palmetto. 

At  length  the  path  grew  easier  and  lighter,  the  woods 
on  the  right  gave  place  to  a  field  half  claimed  for 
cotton  and  half  given  up  to  persimmon  saplings,  black- 
berry-bushes, and  rampant  weeds.  A  furry  pony  with 
mane  and  tail  so  loaded  with  cockleburs  that  he  could 
not  shake  them,  lifted  his  head  and  stared.  A  moment 
afterward  the  view  opened  to  right  and  loft,  and  the 
path  struck  a  grassy  road  at  right  angles  and  ended. 
Just  there  stood  an  aged  sow. 

''Unclean  one,"  said  the  grave  wayfarer,  ''whore 


IN  A    STRANGE  LAND.  79 

dwells  your  master?  —  Ignore  yon  the  English  tongue? 
But  I  shall  speak  not  in  another ;  'tis  that  same  that  I 
am  arriving  to  bring  you." 

The  brute,  with  her  small  bestial  eye  fixed  on  him 
distrustfulh'  and  askance,  moved  enough  to  the  right 
to  let  him  pass  on  the  other  hand,  and  with  his  coat  on 
his  arm  —  so  strong  was  the  October  sun  —  he  turned 
into  the  road  westward,  followed  one  or  two  of  its 
slight  curves,  and  presently  saw  neat  fields  on  either 
hand,  walled  in  on  each  farther  side  by  the  moss-hung 
swamp ;  and  now  a  small,  gray,  unpainted  house,  then 
two  or  three  more,  the  roofs  of  others  peering  out  over 
the  dense  verdure,  and  down  at  the  end  of  the  vista  a 
small  white  spire  and  cross.  Then,  at  another  angle, 
two  men  seated  on  the  roadside.  Their  diffident  gaze 
bore  that  look  of  wild  innocence  that  belongs  to  those 
who  see  more  of  dumb  nature  than  of  men.  Their 
dress  was  homespun.  The  older  was  about  fifty  years 
old,  the  other  much  younger. 

"  Sirs,  have  I  alread}'  reach  Gran'  Point'  ?  " 

The  older  replied  in  an  affirmative  tliat  could  but 
just  be  heard,  laid  back  a  long  lock  of  his  straight 
brown  hair  after  the  manner  of  a  short-haired  girl,  and 
rose  to  his  feet. 

"  I  hunt,"  said  the  traveller  slowly,  '^  Mr.  Maximian 
Roussel." 

A  silent  bow. 

'•'Tisyou?" 

The  same  motion  again. 

The  traveller  produced  a  slip  of  paper  folded  once 
and  containing  a  line  or  two  of  writing  hastily  pencilled 


80  BONAVENTURE. 

that  morning  at  Belle  Alliance.  Maximiau  received  it 
timidly  and  held  it  helplessly  before  his  downcast  eyes 
•with  the  lines  turned  perpendicularly,  while  the  pause 
grew  stifling,  and  until  the  traveller  said :  — 

'•  'Tis  Mr.  Wall  is  make  that  introduction." 

At  the  name  of  the  owner  of  the  beautiful  planta- 
tion the  man  who  had  not  yet  spoken  rose,  covered 
with  whittlings.  It  was  like  a  steer  getting  up  out  of 
the  straw.     He  spoke. 

'•M'sieu'  "Walleece,  a  commence  d  mouUner?  Is  big- 
in  to  gryne  ?  ' ' 

"He  shall  commence  in  the  centre  of  the  next 
week." 

Maximian's  e3"es  rose  slowly  from  the  undeciphered 
paper.  The  traveller's  met  them.  He  pointed  to  the 
missive. 

"  The  schoolmaster  therein  alluded  —  'tis  me." 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  the  villager  joyously,  ''  maUre  d'ecole  ! 
—  schooltitcher !  " 

"But,"  said  the  stranger,  "not  worth}^  the  title." 
He  accepted  gratefully  the  hand  of  one  and  then  of 
the  other. 

'•Walk  een !  "  said  Maximian,  "all  hand',  walk 
een  house."  They  went,  Indian  file,  across  the  road, 
down  a  sinuous  footpath,  over  a  stile,  and  up  to  his 
little  single-story  unpainted  house,  and  tramped  in 
upon  the  railed  galerie. 

''^  Et  M'sieu'  Le  Bourgeois,"  said  the  host,  as  the 
schoolmaster  accepted  a  split-bottomed  chair,  "  he's 
big-in  to  gryne?  " 

Within  this    ground-floor  veranda  —  chief   appoint- 


THE  HANDSHAKING.  81 

ment  of  all  Acadian  homes  —  the  traveller  accepted  a 
drink  of  water  in  a  blue  tumbler,  brought  by  the  meek 
wife.  The  galerie  just  now  was  scattered  with  the 
husband's  appliances  for  making  Ferique  tobacco  into 
' '  carats  ' '  —  the  carat-press.  Its  small,  iron-ratcheted, 
wooden  windlass  extended  along  the  top  rail  of  the 
balustrade  across  one  of  the  galerie's  ends.  Lines  of 
half-inch  grass  rope,  for  wrapping  the  carats  into 
diminished  bulk  and  solid  shape,  lay  along  under  foot. 
Beside  one  of  the  doors,  in  deep  hickory  baskets,  were 
the  parcels  of  cured  tobacco  swaddled  in  cotton  cloths 
and  ready  for  the  torture  of  ropes  and  windlass.  From 
the  joists  overhead  hung  the  pods  of  tobacco-seed  for 
next  year's  planting. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    HANDSHAKING. 


There  was  news  in  Grande  Pointe.  The  fair  nooa 
sky  above,  with  its  peaceful  flocks  of  clouds ;  the 
solemn,  wet  forest  round  about;  the  harvested  fields; 
the  dishevelled,  fragrant  fallows ;  the  reclining,  rumi- 
nating cattle ;  the  little  chapel  of  St.  Vincent  de  Paul 
in  the  midst,  open  for  mass  once  a  fortnight,  for  a 
sermon  in  French  four  times  a  year,  —  these  were  not 
more  tranquil  in  the  face  of  the  fact  that  a  schoolmaster 
had  come  to  Grande  Pointe  to  stay  than  outwardly 
appeared  the  peaceful-minded  villagers.     Yet  as  the 


82  BONAVENTURE. 

tidings  floated  among  the  people,  touching  and  drifting 
on  like  thistle-down,  they  were  stirred  within,  and  came 
b}'  ones,  by  twos,  slow-stepping,  diffidently  smiling,  to 
shake  hands  with  the  young  great  man.  They  wiped 
tlieir  own  before  offering  them  —  the  men  on  their 
strong  thighs,  the  women  on  their  aprons.  Children 
came,  whose  courage  would  carry  them  no  nearer  than 
the  galerie's  end  or  front  edge,  where  they  lurked  and 
liovered,  or  gazed  through  the  balustrade,  or  leaned 
against  a  galerie  post  and  rubbed  one  brown  bare  foot 
upon  another  and  crowded  each  other's  shoulders  with- 
out assignable  cause,  or  lopped  down  upon  the  grass 
and  gazed  from  a  distance. 

Little  conversation  was  offered.  The  curiosity  was 
as  unobtrusive  as  the  diffidence  was  without  fear  ;  and 
when  a  villager's  soft,  low  speech  was  heard,  it  was 
generally  in  answer  to  inquiries  necessary  for  one  to 
make  who  w^as  about  to  assume  the  high  office  of  edu- 
cator. Moreover,  the  schoolmaster  revealed,  with  all 
gentleness,  his  preference  for  the  English  tongue,  and 
to  this  many  could  only  give  ear.  Onl}'  two  or  three 
times  did  the  conversation  rise  to  a  pitch  that  kindled 
even  the  read}"  ardor  of  the  young  man  of  letters. 
Once,  after  a  prolonged  silence,  the  host,  having  gazed 
long  upon  his  guest,  said,  without  preface  :  — 

'••Tough  jawb  you  got,"  and  waved  a  hand  toward 
the  hovering  children. 

*'Sir,"  replied  the  young  scholar,  ''is  it  not  the 
better  to  do  whilse  it  is  the  mo'  tough?  The  mo* 
toughness,  the  mo'  honor."  He  rose  suddenly, 
brushed  back  the  dry,  brown  locks  of  his  line  hair,  and 


THE  HANDSHAKING.  83 

extending  both  hands,  with  his  limp  straw  hat  dan- 
gling in  one,  said:  "Sir,  I  will  ask  you;  is  not  the 
schoolmaster  the  true  patriot?  Shall  his  honor  be  less 
than  that  of  the  soldier?  Yet  I  ask  not  honor;  for 
me,  I  am  not  fit;  yet,  after  my  poor  capacities"  — 
He  resumed  his  seat. 

An  awesome  quiet  followed.  Then  some  one  spoke 
to  him,  too  low  to  be  heard.  He  bent  forward  to  hear 
the  words  repeated,  and  'Mian  said  for  the  timorous 
speaker :  — 

*'Aw,  dass  nut'n ;  he  jis  only  say,  'Is  M'sieu* 
Walleece  big-in  to  gryue?  '  " 

Few  tarried  long,  though  one  man  —  he  whom  the 
schoolmaster  had  fouud  sitting  on  the  roadside  with 
Maximian  —  staid  all  day  ;  and  even  among  the  vil- 
lagers themselves  there  was  almost  no  loquacity. 
Maximian,  it  is  true,  as  the  afternoon  wore  along, 
and  it  seemed  plain  that  the  reception  was  a  great  and 
spontaneous  success,  spoke  with  growing  frequency 
and  heartiness  ;  and,  when  the  guest  sat  down  alone 
at  a  table  within,  where  la  vieille  —  the  wife  —  was 
placing  half-a-dozen  still  sputtering  fried  eggs,  a  great 
wheaten  loaf,  a  yellow  gallon  bowl  of  boiled  milk,  a 
pewter  ladle,  a  bowie-knife,  the  blue  tumbler,  and 
a  towel ;  and  out  on  the  galerie  the  callers  were  still 
coming :  his  simple  neighbors  pardoned  the  elation 
that  led  him  to  take  a  chair  himself  a  little  way  off, 
sit  on  it  side  wise,  cross  his  legs  ga^^ly,  and  with  a 
smile  and  wave  of  his  good  brown  hand  say :  — 

"  Servez-vous  !  He'p  you'se'f  !  Eat  much  you  like  ; 
till  you  swell  up  ! ' ' 


8i  BONAVENTURE. 

Even  he  asked  do  questions.  Only  near  the  end  of 
the  da}^  when  the  barefoot  children  by  gradual  ven- 
tures had  at  length  gathered  close  about  and  were  softly 
pushing  for  place  on  his  knees,  and  huddling  under  his 
arms,  and  he  was  talking  French,  —  the  onl}'  language 
most  of  them  knew,  —  he  answered  the  first  personal 
inquirv  put  to  him  since  arriving.  ''His  name,"  he 
replied  to  the  tiny,  dark,  big-eyed  boy  who  spoke  for 
his  whispering  fellows,  "  his  name  was  Bonaveuture  — 
Bouaventure  Deschamps. ' ' 

As  the  great  October  sun  began  to  dip  his  crimson 
wheel  behind  the  low  black  line  of  swamp,  and  the 
chapel  cross  stood  out  against  a  band  of  yellow  light 
that  spanned  the  west,  he  walked  out  to  see  the  vil- 
lage, a  little  girl  on  either  hand  and  little  boj^s  round 
about.  The  children  talked  apace.  Only  the  girl 
whose  hand  he  held  in  his  right  was  mute.  She  was 
taller  than  the  rest ;  yet  it  was  she  to  whom  the  little 
big-eyed  boy  pointed  when  he  said,  vain  of  his  ability 
to  tell  it  in  English  :  — 

"I  don't  got  but  eight  year'  old,  me.  I'm  gran' 
for  my  age;  but  she,  she  not  gran'  for  her  age  — 
Sidonie  ;  no  ;  she  not  gran'  at  all  for  her  age." 

They  told  the  story  of  the  chapel :  how  some  years 
before,  in  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  at  the 
parish  seat  a  few  miles  away  on  the  Mississippi,  a  nun 
had  by  the  Pope's  leave  cast  off  the  veil ;  how  she 
had  come  to  Grande  Pointe  and  taken  charge  of  her 
widowed  brother's  children  ;  and  how  he  had  died,  and 
she  had  found  means,  the  children  knew  not  how,  to 
build  this  chapel.     And  now  she  was  buried  under  it, 


THE  HANDSHAKING.  8o 

they  said.  It  seemed,  from  what  they  left  unsaid 
as  well  as  what  they  said,  that  the  simple  influcDce  of 
her  presence  had  kindled  a  desire  for  education  in 
Grande  Pointe  not  known  before. 

"  Dass  ra}^  tante — my  hant.  She  ims  mj^  hant 
befo'  she  die',"  said  the  little  man  of  eight  years,  hop- 
ping along  the  turf  in  front  of  the  rest.  He  dropped 
into  a  walk  that  looked  rapid,  facing  round  and  mov- 
ing backward.  "  She  learn  me  English,  my  tante. 
And  she  try  to  learn  Sidonie  ;  but  Sidonie,  Sidonie 
fine  that  too  strong  to  learn,  that  English,  Sidonie." 
He  hopped  again,  talking  as  he  hopped,  and  holding 
the  lifted  foot  in  his  hand.  He  could  do  that  and 
speak  English  at  the  same  time,  so  talented  was 
Toutou. 

Thus  the  sun  went  down.  And  at  Maximian's  stile 
again  Bonaventure  Deschamps  took  the  children's 
cheeks  into  his  slender  fingers  and  kissed  them,  one  by 
one,  beginning  at  the  least,  and  so  up,  slowly,  toward 
Sidonie  Le  Blanc.  With  very  earnest  tenderness  it 
was  done,  some  grave  word  of  inspiration  going  before 
each  caress;  but  when  at  last  he  said,  ''To-morrow, 
dear  chil'run,  the  school-bell  shall  ring  in  Gran' 
Point'  !  "  and  turned  to  finish  with  Sidonie  —  she  was 
gone. 


86  BONAVENTURE. 

CHAPTER    IV. 

now   THE    CHILDREN    RANG    THE    BELL. 

Where  the  fields  go  wild  aud  grow  into  brakes,  and 
the  soil  becomes  fenny,  on  the  north-western  edge  of 
Grande  Pointe,  a  dark,  slender  thread  of  a  bayou 
moves  loiteriugh'  north-eastward  into  a  swamp  of  huge 
cypresses.  In  there  it  presently  meets  another  like 
itself,  the  Bayou  Tchackchou,  slipping  around  from 
the  little  farm  village's  eastern  end  as  silently  as  a 
little  mother  comes  out  of  a  bower  where  she  has  just 
put  her  babe  to  sleep.  A  little  farther  on  they  are 
joined  as  noiselessl}^  by  Blind  River,  and  the  united 
waters  slip  on  northward  through  the  dim,  colonnaded, 
watery -floored,  green  -  roofed,  ])lue- vapored,  moss- 
draped  wilderness,  till  in  the  adjoining  parish  of  As- 
cension they  curve  around  to  the  oast  and  issue  into 
the  sunny  breadth  of  Lake  Maurepas.  Thus  they 
make  the  Bayou  des  Acadieus.  From  Lake  Maurepas 
one  can  go  up  Amite  or  Tickfaw  River,  or  to  Pass 
Manchac  or  Pontchatoula,  anywhere  in  the  world,  in 
fact,  —  where  a  canoe  can  go. 

On  a  bank  of  this  bayou,  no  great  wa}^  from  Grande 
Pointe,  but  with  the  shadow  of  the  swamp  at  its  back 
and  a  small,  bright  prairie  of  rushes  and  giant  reeds 
stretching  away  from  the  opposite  shore,  stood,  more 
in  the  water  than  on  the  land,  the  palmetto-thatched 
fishing  and  hunting  lodge  and  only  home  of  a  man  who 
on   the   other  side   of   the   Atlantic   you  would    have 


now   THE  CHILDREN  RANG    THE  BELL.      87 

kuowu  for  a  peasant  of  Normandy,  albeit  he  was  born 
in  this  swamp,  —  the  man  who  had  tarried  all  day  at 
the  schoolmaster's  handshaking. 

What  a  day  that  had  been !  Once  before  he  had 
witnessed  a  positive  event.  That  was  when,  one  day, 
he  journeyed  purposely  to  the  levee  of  Belle  Alliance, 
waited  from  morning  till  evening,  and  at  last  saw  the 
steamer  ''Robert  E.  Lee"  come  by,  and,  as  fortune 
would  have  it,  land  !  loaded  with  cotton  from  the  water 
to  the  hurricane  deck.  He  had  gone  home  resolved 
from  that  moment  to  save  his  money,  and  be  some- 
thing more  than  he  was. 

But  that  event  had  flashed  before  his  eyes,  and  in 
a  quarter-hour  was  gone,  save  in  his  memory.  The 
coming  of  the  schoolmaster,  all  unforeseen,  had  lasted 
a  day,  and  he  had  seen  it  from  beginning  to  end.  All 
day  long  on  'Mian's  galerie,  standing  now  here,  now 
there,  he  had  got  others  to  interpret  for  him,  where 
he  could  not  guess,  the  meanings  of  the  wise  and 
noble  utterances  that  fell  every  now  and  then  from 
the  lips  of  the  young  soldier  of  learning,  and  stored 
them  away  in  his  now  greedy  mind. 

One  saying  in  particular,  whose  originality  he  did 
not  dream  of  questioning,  took  profound  hold  of  his 
conviction  and  admiration  ;  and  two  or  three  times  that 
evening,  as  his  canoe  glided  homeward  in  the  twilight, 
its  one  long,  igmooth  ripple  gleaming  on  this  side  and 
that  as  it  widened  away  toward  the  bayou's  dark 
banks,  he  rested  for  a  moment  on  his  tireless  paddle, 
and  softly  broke  the  silence  of  the  wilderness  with  its 
three  simple  words,  so  trite  to  our  ears,  so  strange  to 
his :  — 


88  BONAVENTURE. 

"  Knowledge  is  power." 

In  years  be  was  ])ut  thirt3^-five ;  but  he  was  a 
widower,  and  the  one  son  who  was  his  only  child  and 
companion  would  presently  be  fourteen. 

"  Claude,"  he  said,  as  the}-  rose  that  evening  from 
their  hard  supper  in  the  light  and  fumes  of  their  small 
kerosene-lamp,  "  /'  faiit  z-ahler  coucher.''  (We  must 
go  to  bed.) 

"  Quofoir?'*  asked  the  sturdy  lad.  (Pourquoi? 
Why?) 

*' Because,"  replied  tlie  father  in  the  same  strange 
French  in  which  he  had  begun,  "at  daybreak  to- 
moi-row,  and  every  day  thereafter,  you  must  be  in  your 
dug-out  on  your  way  to  Grande  Pointe,  to  school. 
My  son,  you  are  going  to  learn  how  to  read !  " 

So  came  it  that,  until  their  alphabetical  re-arrange- 
ment, the  first  of  all  the  thirt3'-five  names  on  the  roll 
was  Claude  St.  Pierre,  and  that  every  evening  thence- 
forward when  that  small  kerosene-lamp  glimmered  in 
the  deep  darkness  of  Bayou  des  Acadiens,  the  abece- 
darian Claude  was  a  teacher. 

But  even  before  the  first  rough  roll  was  made  he  was 
present,  under  the  little  chapel-tower,  when  for  the 
first  time  its  bell  rang  for  school.  The  young  master 
was  there,  and  all  the  children  ;  so  that  really  there 
was  nothing  to  ring  the  bell  for.  They  could,  all  to- 
gether, have  walked  quietly  across  the  village  green  to 
the  forlorn  tobacco-shed  that  'Mian  had  given  them 
for  a  schoolhouse,  and  begun  the  session.  Ah  I  say 
not  so !  It  was  good  to  ring  the  bell.  A  few  of 
the  stronger  lads  would  even  have  sent  the  glad  clang 


UOIV   THE   CHILDREN  RANG    THE  BELL.      89 

abroad  before  the  time,  but  Bonaventure  restrained 
them.  For  one  thing,  there  must  be  room  for  every 
one  to  bear  a  hand.  So  he  tied  above  their  best  reach 
three  strands  of  "  carat  "  cord  to  the  main  rope.  Even 
then  he  was  not  ready. 

"  No,  dear  ehil'run  ;  but  grasp  hold,  every  one,  the 
ropes,  the  cawds, — the  shawt  ehil'run  reaching  up 
shawtly,  the  long  ehil'run  the  more  longly." 

Few  understood  his  words,  but  they  quietly  caught 
the  idea,  and  yielded  themselves  eagerly  to  his  arran- 
ging hand.  The  highest  grasp  was  Claude's.  There 
was  a  little  empty  space  under  it,  and  then  one  only 
of  Sidonie's  hands,  timid,  smooth,  and  brown.  And 
still  the  master  held  back  the  word. 

''Not  yet!  not  yet!  The  pear  is  not  ripe!  "  He 
stood  apart  from  them,  near  the  chapel-door,  where 
the  light  was  strong,  his  silver  watch  open  in  his  left 
hand,  his  form  erect,  his  right  hand  lifted  to  the  brim 
of  his  hat,  his  eyes  upon  the  dial. 

"  Not  yet,  dear  ehil'run.  Not  yet.  Two  minute 
mo'. — Be  read}'.  —  Not  yet!  —  One  minute  mo'!  — 
Have  the  patience.  Hold  every  one  in  his  aw  her  place. 
Be  ready  !  Have  the  patience.'*  But  at  length  when 
the  little  ones  were  frowning  and  softly  sighing  with  the 
pain  of  upheld  arms,  their  waiting  eyes  saw  his  dilate. 
"Be  ready  !  "  he  said,  with  low  intensity  :  "  Be  read}' !  " 
He  soared  to  his  tiptoes,  the  hat  flounced  from  his  head 
and  smote  his  thigh,  his  eyes  turned  upon  them  blazing, 
and  he  cried,  "  Eing,  ehil'run,  ring  !  " 

The  elfin  crew  leaped  up  the  ropes  and  came  crouch- 
ing down.     The  bell  pealed;  the  master's  hat  swung 


90  B  ON  A  YEN  run  E. 

round  his  head.  His  wide  eyes  were  wet,  and  he  cried 
again,  ''Ring!  ring!  for  God,  light,  libbutty,  educa- 
tion !  "  He  sprang  toward  the  leaping,  sinking  mass  ; 
but  the  right  feeling  kept  his  own  hands  off.  And  up 
and  down  the  children  went,  the  bell  answering  from 
above,  peal  upon  peal ;  when  just  as  they  had  caught 
the  rhythm  of  Claude's  sturdy  pull,  and  the  bell  could 
sound  no  louder,  the  small  cords  gave  way  from  their 
fastenings,  the  little  ones  rolled  upon  their  backs,  the 
bell  gave  one  ecstatic  double  clang  and  turned  clear 
over,  the  swift  rope  straightened  upward  from  its  coil, 
and  Claude  and  Sidonie,  her  hands  clasped  upon  each 
other  about  the  rope  and  his  hands  upon  hers,  shot  up 
three  times  as  high  as  their  finest  leap  could  have 
carried  them.  For  an  instant  the}'  hung ;  then  with 
another  peal  the  bell  turned  back  and  they  came  blush- 
ing to  the  floor.  A  swarm  of  hands  darted  to  the 
rope,  but  Bonaventure's  was  on  it  first. 

" 'Tis  sufficient!"  he  said,  his  face  all  triumph. 
The  bell  gave  a  lingering  clang  or  two  and  ceased,  and 
presently  the  happy  company  walked  across  the  green. 
"Sufficient,"  the  master  had  said;  but  it  was  more 
than  sufficient.  In  that  moment  of  suspension,  with 
Sidonie's  great  brown  frightened  eyes  in  his,  and  their 
four  hands  clasped  together,  Claude  had  learned,  for 
his  first  lesson,  that  knowledge  is  not  the  only  or  the 
greatest  power. 


INVITED    TO  LEAVE.  91 


CHAPTER    V. 

INVITED    TO    LEAVE. 

After  that,  every  school-clay  morning  Claude  rang 
the  bell.  Always  full  early  his  pirogue  came  gliding 
out  of  the  woods  and  up  through  the  bush}^  fen  to  the 
head  of  canoe  navigation  and  was  hauled  ashore. 
Bonaventure  had  fixed  his  home  near  the  chapel  and 
not  far  from  Claude's  landing-place.  Thus  the  lad 
could  easily  come  to  his  door  each  morning  at  the 
right  moment — reading  it  by  hunter's  signs  in  nature's 
book  —  to  get  the  word  to  ring.  There  were  none  of 
the  usual  reasons  that  the  schoolmaster  should  live 
close  to  the  schoolhouse.  There  was  no  demand  for 
its  key. 

Not  of  that  schoolhouse  !  A  hundred  feet  length 
by  twenty-five  breadth,  of  earth-floored,  clapboard- 
roofed,  tumbling  shed,  rudely  walled  with  cypress  split 
boards, — pieux^  —  planted  endwise  in  the  earth,  like 
palisades,  a  hand-breadth  space  between  every  two, 
and  sunlight  and  fresh  air  and  the  gleams  of  green 
fields  coming  in  ;  the  scores  of  little  tobacco-presses 
that  had  stood  in  ranks  on  the  hard  earth  floor,  the 
great  sapling  levers,  and  the  festoons  of  curing  tobacco 
that  had  hung  from  the  joists  overhead,  all  removed, 
only  the  odor  left ;  bold  gaps  here  and  there  in  the 
2)ieiix.,  made  by  that  mild  influence  which  the  restless 
call  decay,  and  serving  for  windows  and  doors ;  the 
eastern  end  swept  clean  and  occupied  by  a  few  benches 


92  BOXAVENTURD. 

and  five  or  six  desks,  strong,  home-made,  sixty-fonr 
pounders. 

Life  had  broadened  with  Claude  in  two  directions. 
On  one  side  opened,  fair  and  noble,  the  acquaintance- 
ship of  Bonaventure  Deschamps,  a  man  who  had  seen 
the  outside  world,  a  man  of  books,  of  learning,  a  man 
who  could  have  taught  even  geograph}',  had  there  been 
an}"  one  to  learn  it ;  and  on  the  other  side,  like  a  garden 
of  roses  and  spices,  the  schoolmateship  of  Sidonie  Le 
Blanc.  To  3-011  and  me  she  would  have  seemed  the 
merest  little  brown  sprout  of  a  thing,  almost  nothing 
but  two  big  eyes  —  like  a  little  owl.  To  Claude  it 
seemed  as  though  nothing  older  or  larger  could  be  so 
exactly  in  the  prime  of  beauty ;  the  path  to  learning 
was  the  widest,  floweriest,  fragrantest  path  he  had  ever 
trod. 

Sidonie  did  not  often  speak  with  him.  At  recess 
she  usually  staid  at  her  desk,  studying,  quite  alone  but 
for  Bonaventure  silently  busy  at  his,  and  Claude  him- 
self, sitting  farther  awa}',  wlienever  the  teacher  did 
not  sec  him  and  drive  him  to  the  playground.  If  he 
would  only  drive  Sidonie  out !     But  he  never  did. 

One  da}",  after  quite  a  contest  of  learning,  and  as 
the  hour  of  dismission  was  scattering  the  various 
groups  across  the  green,  Toutou,  the  little  brother  who 
was  grand  for  his  age,  said  to  Claude,  hanging  timidly 
near  Sidonie :  — 

^^  Alle  est  ^)Zt«s  smart'  que  vous.''  (She  is  smarter 
than  you.) 

Whereupon  Sidonie  made  haste  to  say  in  their  Aca- 
dian French,   "Ah!    Master  Toutou,   you  forget  we 


INVITED   TO  LEAVE.  93 

went  to  school  to  our  dear  auut.  And  besides,  I  am 
small  and  look  young,  but  I  am  nearl}'  a  3'ear  older 
than  Claude."  She  had  wanted  to  be  kind,  but  that 
was  the  first  thorn.     Older  than  he  ! 

And  not  only  that ;  nearly  fifteen  !  Why,  at  fifteen 
—  at  fifteen  girls  get  married  !  The  odds  were  heavy. 
He  wished  he  had  thought  of  that  at  first.  He  was 
sadly  confused.  Sometimes  when  Bonaventure  spoke 
words  of  enthusiasm  and  regard  to  him  after  urging 
him  fiercely  up  some  hill  of  difficulty  among  the  bris- 
tling heights  of  English  pronunciation,  he  yearned  to 
seek  him  alone  and  tell  him  this  difficulty  of  the  heart. 
There  was  no  fear  that  Bonaventure  would  laugh ;  he 
seemed  scarce  to  know  how  ;  and  his  smiles  were  all 
of  tenderness  and  zeal.  Claude  did  not  believe  the 
ten  years  between  them  would  matter ;  had  not  Bona- 
venture said  to  him  but  yesterday  that  to  him  all  love- 
liness was  the  lovelier  for  being  very  young?  Yet 
when  the  confession  seemed  almost  on  Claude's  lips 
it  was  driven  back  by  an  alien  mood  in  the  master's 
face.  There  were  troubles  in  Bonaventure's  heart 
that  Claude  wot  not  of. 

One  day  who  should  drop  in  just  as  school  was  about 
to  begin  but  the  priest  from  College  Point !  Such  order 
as  he  found !  Bonaventure  stood  at  his  desk  like  a 
general  on  a  high  hill,  his  large  hand-bell  in  his  grasp, 
passed  his  eyes  over  the  seventeen  demure  girls,  with 
their  large,  brown-black,  liquid  eyes,  their  delicately 
pencilled  brows,  their  dark,  waveless  hair,  and  sounded 
one  tap !  The  sport  outside  ceased,  the  gaps  at  the 
shed's  farther  end  were  darkened  by  small  forms  that 


94  BONAVENTURE. 

came  darting  like  rabbits  into  their  burrows,  eighteen 
small  hats  came  off,  and  the  eighteen  boys  came  softly 
forward  and  took  their  seats.     Such  discipline  ! 

"Sir,"  said  Bonaventure,  "think  you  'tis  arising 
f'om  the  strickness  of  the  teacher?  'Tis  f'om  the 
goodness  of  the  chiFrun !  How  I  long  the  State 
Sup'inten'ent  Public  Education  to  see  them!" 

The  priest  commended  the  sight  and  the  wish  with 
smiling  affirmations  that  somehow  seemed  to  lack  sym- 
pathy. He  asked  the  names  of  two  or  three  pupils. 
That  little  fellow  with  soft,  tanned,  chubby  cheeks  and 
great  black  eyes,  tiny  mouth,  smooth  feet  so  shapely 
and  small,  still  wet  to  their  ankles  with  dew,  and  arms 
that  he  could  but  just  get  folded,  was  Toutou.  That 
lad  with  the  strong  shoulders,  good  wide  brows,  steady 
eye,  and  general  air  of  manliness,  —  that  was  Claude 
St.  Pierre.  And  this  girl  over  on  the  left  here,  — 
"You  observe,"  said  Bonaventure,  "I  situate  the 
lambs  on  the  left  and  the  kids  on  the  right," — this 
little,  slender  crescent  of  human  moonlight,  with  her 
hair  in  two  heavy,  black,  down-falling  plaits,  meek, 
drooping  eyes,  long  lashes,  soft  childish  cheeks  and 
full  throat,  was  Sidonie  Le  Blanc.  Bonaventure  mur- 
mured :  — 

"Best  scholah  in  the  school,  yet  the  onhj  —  that 
loves  not  her  teacher.  But  I  give  always  my  interest, 
not  according  to  the  interestinguess,  but  rather  to  the 
uecessitude,  of  each." 

The  visit  was  not  long.  Standing,  about  to  depart, 
the  visitor  seemed  still,  as  at  the  first,  a  man  of  many 
reservations  under  his  polite  smiles.     But  just  then  he 


INVITED   TO  LEAVE.  95 

dropped  a  phrase  that  the  teacher  recognized  as  an 
indirect  quotation,  and  Bonaventure  cried,  with  greedy 
eyes  :  — 

"  You  have  read  Victor  Hugo?  " 
"Yes." 

''Oh,  sir,  that  grea-a-at  man  I  That  father  of  hb- 
butty  !  Other  patriots  are  the  sons,  but  he  the  father  ! 
Is  it  not  thus?" 

The  priest  shrugged  and  made  a  mouth.  The  young 
schoolmaster's  face  dropped. 

"  Sir,  I  must  ask  you  — is  he  not  the  frien'  of  the 
poor  and  downtrod  ?  " 

The  visitor's  smile  quite  disappeared.  He  said  :  — 
"  Oh  !  "  —  and  waved  a  hand  impatiently  ;  "  Victor 
Hugo  "  —  another  mouth  —  '^  Victor  Hugo  "  —  reply- 
ing in  French  to  the  schoolmaster's  English  —  "  is  not 
of  my  party."  And  then  he  laughed  unpleasantly 
and  said  good-day. 

The  State  Superintendent  did  not  come,  but  every 
day  —  ''It  is  perhaps  he  shall  come  to-mo'w,  chil'run  ; 
have  yo'  lessons  well !  " 

The  whole  tiny  army  of  long,  blue,  ankle-hiding  cot- 
tonade  pantalettes  and  pantaloons  tried  to  fulfil  the 
injunction.  Not  one  but  had  a  warm  place  in  the 
teacher's  heart.  But  Toutou,  Claude,  Sidonie,  any- 
body who  glanced  into  that  heart  could  see  sitting  there 
enthroned.  And  some  did  that  kind  of  reconnoitring. 
Catou,  'Mian's  older  brother,  was  much  concerned. 
He  saw  no  harm  in  a  little  education,  but  took  no  sat- 
isfaction in  the  introduction  of  English  speech;  and 
speaking   to  'Mian  of  that  reminded  him  to   say  he 


96  BONAVENTURE. 

believed  the  schoolmaster  himself  was  aware  of  the 
three  children's  pre-emineuce  iu  his  heart.  But  'Mian 
only  said :  — 

*'  Ah  bien,  c'est  all  right,  alors!  "  (Well,  then,  it's 
all  right.)  Whether  all  right  or  not,  Bonaveuture  was 
aware  of  it,  and  tried  to  hide  it  under  special  kind- 
nesses to  others,  and  particularly  to  the  dullard  of  the 
school,  grandson  of  Catou  and  nicknamed  Crchiche} 
The  child  loved  him  ;  and  when  Claude  rang  the  chapel 
bell,  and  before  its  last  tap  had  thrilled  dreamily  on 
the  morning  air,  when  the  urchins  playing  about  the 
schoolhouse  espied  another  group  coming  slowly  across 
the  common  with  Bonaventure  in  the  midst  of  them, 
his  coat  on  his  arm  and  the  children's  hands  in  his, 
there  among  them  came  Crebiche,  now  on  one  side, 
now  running  round  to  the  other,  hoping  so  to  get  a 
little  nearer  to  the  master. 

"  None  shall  have  such  kindness  to-day  as  thou," 
Bonaventure  would  silently  resolve  as  he  went  in 
through  a  gap  in  the  pieux.  And  the  children  could 
not  see  but  he  treated  them  all  alike.  They  saw  no 
unjust  inequality  even  when,  Crebiche  haviug  three 
times  spelt  "earth"  with  an  u^  the  master  paced  to 
and  fro  on  the  bare  ground  among  the  unmatched 
desks  and  break-back  benches,  running  his  hands 
through  his  hair  and  crying :  — 

"  Well !  well  aht  thou  name'  the  crawfish  ;  with  such 
rapiditive  celeritude  dost  thou  progress  backwardly  !  " 

It  must  have  been  to  this  utterance  that  he  alluded 
when  at  the  close  of  that  day  he  walked,  as  he  sup- 

1  jfjcrevisse,  erawfish. 


INVITED    TO   LEAVE.  97 

posed,  with  only  birds  and  grasshoppers  for  com- 
panions, and  they  grew  still,  and  the  turtle-doves 
began  to  moan,  and  he  smote  his  breast  and  cried  ; 

''Ah!  rules,  rules!  how  easy  to  make,  hkewise 
break  !  Oh  !  the  shame,  the  shame  !  If  Victor  Hugo 
had  seen  that !  And  if  George  Washington !  But 
thou,"  —  some  one  else,  not  mentioned,  —  "  thou 
sawedst  it !  " 

The  last  word  was  still  on  the  speaker's  lips,  when 
—  there  beside  the  path,  with  heavy  63-6  and  drunken 
frown,  stood  the  father  of  Crebiche,  the  son  of  Catou, 
the  little  boy  of  twenty-five  known  as  Chat-oue.  He 
spoke : 

"  To  who  is  dat  you  speak?     Talk  wid  de  dev'  ?  '* 

Bonaventure  murmured  a  salutation,  touched  his  hat, 
and  passed.  Chat-oue  moved  a  little,  and  delivered  a 
broadside : 

"Afteh  dat,  you  betteh  leave!  Yes,  3'o.u  betteh 
leave  Gran'  Point'  !  " 

"  Sir,"  said  Bonaventure,  turning  with  flushed  face, 
"I  stay." 

''Yes,"  said  the  other,  "  dass  righ'  ;  j^ou  betteh  go 
way  and  stay.  Marjicien^''  he  added  as  the  school- 
master moved  on,  "  sorcier! —  Voudou  !  — jackass  !  " 

What  did  all  this  mean  ? 


98  BONAVENTURE, 

CHAPTER    VI. 

WAR   OF    DARKNESS    AND    LIGHT. 

Catou,  it  seems,  had  gone  one  day  to  College  Point 
with  a  pair  of  wild  ducks  that  he  had  shot,  —  first 
of  the  season,  —  and  offered  them  to  the  priest  who 
preached  for  Grande  Pointe  once  a  quarter. 

"Catou,"  said  the  recipient,  in  good  French  but 
with  a  cruel  hardness  of  tone,  "  wh}"  does  that  man 
out  there  teach  his  school  in  English?"  The  ques- 
tioner's intentions  were  not  unkind.  He  felt  a  pro- 
tector's care  for  his  Acadian  sheep,  whose  wants  he 
fancied  he,  if  not  he  only,  understood.  He  believed 
a  sudden  overdose  of  enlightenment  would  be  to  them 
a  real  disaster,  and  he  proposed  to  save  them  from  it 
by  the  kind  of  management  they  had  been  accustomed 
to  —  they  and  their  fathers  —  for  a  thousand  years. 

Catou  answered  the  question  only  b}^  a  timid  smile 
and  shrug.     The  questioner  spoke  again  : 

''Why  do  you  Grande  Pointe  folk  allow  it?  Do 
you  want  j'our  children  stuffed  full  of  American  ideas? 
What  is  in  those  books  they  are  studying?  You  don't 
know?  Neither  do  I.  I  would  not  look  into  one  of 
them.  But  you  ought  to  know  that  to  learn  English 
is  to  learn  free-thinking.  Do  you  know  who  print 
those  books  that  your  children  are  rubbing  their  noses 
in?  Yankees !  Oh,  I  doubt  not  they  have  been  sharp 
enough  to  sprinkle  a  little  of  the  stuff  they  call  religion 
here  and  there  in  them ;  'tis  but  the  bait  on  the  hook ! 


WAR   OF  DABKNESS  AND  LIGHT.  99 

But  you  sill}^  'Cadiaus  think  your  children  are  getting 
education,  and  tliat  makes  up  for  every  thing  else. 
Do  you  know  what  comes  of  it?  Discontent.  Vanity. 
Contempt  of  honest  labor.  Your  children  are  going 
to  be  discontented  with  their  lot.  It  will  soon  be 
good-by  to  sunbonnets  ;  good-by  to  homespun  ;  good- 
by  to  Grande  Pointe,  — yes,  and  good-by  to  the  faith 
of  your  fathers.  Catou,  what  do  you  know  about 
that  man,  anyhow?  You  ask  him  no  questions,  you 
'Cadiaus,  and  he  —  oh,  he  is  too  modest  to  tell  you  who 
or  what  he  is.      Who  pays  him?  " 

"  He  say  pay  is  way  behine.  He  say  he  don't  get 
not'in'  since  he  come  3'ondeh,"  said  Catou,  the  dis- 
tress that  had  gathered  on  his  face  disappearing  for 
a  moment. 

The  questioner  laughed  contemptuously. 

"Do  you  suppose  he  works  that  way  for  nothing? 
How  do  you  know,  at  all,  that  his  real  errand  is  to 
teach  school  ?  A  letter  from  ^Ir.  Wallis  !  who  simply 
told  your  simple-minded  brother  what  the  fellow  told 
him !  See  here,  Catou  ;  you  owe  a  tax  as  a  raiser  of 
tobacco,  eh?  And  besides  that,  hasn't  every  one 
of  you  an  absurd  little  sign  stuck  up  on  the  side  of  his 
house,  as  required  by  the  Government,  to  show  that 
you  owe  another  tax  as  a  tobacco  manufacturer  ?  But 
still  you  have  a  little  arrangement  to  neutralize  that, 
eh  ?  How  do  you  know  this  man  is  not  among  3'ou  to 
look  into  that?  Do  3'ou  know  that  he  can  teach?  No 
wonder  he  prefers  to  teach  in  English !  I  had  a  con- 
versation with  him  the  other  day  ;  I  want  no  more  ;  he 
preferred  to  talk  to  me  in  English.     That  is  the  good 


100  BONAVENTURE. 

manners  he  is  teaching ;  light-headed,  hero-worship- 
ping, free-thinker  that  he  is." 

Caton  was  sore  dismayed.  He  had  never  heard  of 
hero-worship  or  free-thinking  before,  bnt  did  not  doubt 
their  atrocity.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  a 
man  with  a  few  spelling-books  and  elementary  readers 
could  be  so  dangerous  to  societj'. 

"  I  wish  he  clear  out  from  yondeh,"  said  Catou.  He 
really  made  his  short  responses  in  French,  but  in  a 
French  best  indicated  in  bad  English. 

*'Not  for  my  sake,"  replied  the  priest,  coldly  smil- 
ing. "  I  shall  just  preach  somewhere  else  on  the  thir- 
teenth Sunday  of  each  quarter,  and  let  Grande  Pointe 
go  to  the  devil ;  for  there  is  where  your  new  friend 
is  sure  to  land  you.  Good-day,  I  am  ver}"  busy  this 
morning." 

These  harsh  words  —  harsh  barking  of  the  shepherd 
dog  —  spread  an  unseen  consternation  in  Grande 
Pointe.  Maximian  was  not  greatly  concerned.  When 
he  heard  of  the  threat  to  cut  off  the  spiritual  table- 
crumbs  with  which  the  villagers  had  so  scantily  been 
fed,  he  only  responded  that  in  his  opinion  the  dominie 
was  no  such  a  fool  as  that.  But  others  could  not  so 
easily  dismiss  their  fears.  They  began  to  say  pri- 
vately, leaning  on  fences  and  lingering  at  stiles,  that 
they  had  felt  from  the  very  da}'-  of  that  first  mad  bell- 
ringing  that  the  whole  movement  was  too  headlong ; 
that  this  opening  the  sluices  of  English  education 
would  make  trouble.  Children  shouldn't  be  taught 
what  their  parents  do  not  understand.  Not  that  there 
was  special  harm  in  a  little  spelling,  adding,  or  sub- 


WAE   OF  DARKNESS  AND   LIGHT.         101 

tracting,  but  —  the  notions  they  and  the  teacher  pro- 
duced !  Here  was  the  school's  influence  going  through 
all  the  place  like  the  waters  of  a  rising  tide.  All 
Grande  Pointe  was  lifting  from  the  sands,  and  in  dan- 
ger of  getting  afloat  and  drifting  toward  the  current 
of  the  great  world's  life.  Personally,  too,  the  school- 
master seemed  harmless  enough.  From  the  children 
and  he  loving  each  other,  the  hearts  of  the  seniors  had 
become  entangled.  The  children  had  come  home  from 
the  atmosphere  of  that  old  tobacco-shed,  and  persuaded 
the  very  grandmothers  to  understand  vaguely  —  very 
vaguely  and  dimly  —  that  the  day  of  liberty  which  had 
come  to  the  world  at  large  a  hundred  years  before 
had  come  at  last  to  them  ;  that  in  France  their  race 
had  been  peasants  ;  in  Acadia,  forsaken  colonists  ;  in 
Massachusetts,  Pennsylvania,  Maryland,  Virginia,  ex- 
iles alien  to  the  laud,  the  language,  and  the  times  ;  in 
St.  Domingo,  penniless,  sick,  unwelcome  refugees ; 
and  for  just  one  century  in  Louisiana  the  jest  of  the 
proud  Creole,  held  down  by  the  triple  fetter  of  illiter- 
acy, poverty,  and  the  competition  of  unpaid,  half -clad, 
swarming  slaves.  But  that  now  the  slave  was  free, 
the  school  was  free,  and  a  new,  wide,  golden  future 
waited  only  on  their  education  in  the  greatest  language 
of  the  world. 

All  this  was  pleasant  enough  to  accept  even  in  a 
dim  way,  though  too  good  to  be  more  than  remotely 
grasped.  But  just  when,  as  music  in  a  sleeper's  ear, 
it  is  taking  hold  of  their  impulses  somewhat,  comes 
the  word  of  their  hereditary  dictator  that  this  man  is 
among  them  only  for  their  destruction.     What  could 


102  7;  ONyi  VEN  TUBE. 

they  reply?  Tliey  were  a  people  around  whom  the 
entire  world's  thought  had  swirled  and  tumbled  for 
four  hundred  years  without  once  touching  them.  Their 
ancestors  had  left  France  before  Descartes  or  Newton 
had  begun  to  teach  the  modern  world  to  think.  They 
knew  no  method  of  reasoning  save  by  precedent,  and 
had  never  caught  the  faintest  reflection  from  the  mind 
of  that  great,  sweet  thinker  who  said,  "  A  stubborn 
retention  of  customs  is  a  turbulent  thing,  no  less  than 
the  introduction  of  new."  To  such  strangers  in  the 
world  of  to-day  now  came  the  contemptuous  challenge 
of  authority,  defying  them  to  prove  that  one  who  pro- 
posed to  launch  them  forth  upon  a  sea  of  changes  out 
of  sight  of  all  precedent  and  tradition  was  not  the 
hireling  of  some  enemy's  gold  secretlj'  paid  to  sap  the 
foundations  of  all  their  spiritual  and  temporal  interests 
and  plunge  them  into  chaos. 

They  blamed  Bouaventure  ;  he  had  got  himself  hated 
and  them  rebuked  ;  it  was  enough.  They  said  little 
to  each  other  and  nothing  to  him  ;  but  they  felt  the 
sleepy  sense  of  injury  we  all  know  so  well  against  one 
who  was  disturbing  then*  slumber  ;  and  some  began  to 
suspect  and  distrust  him,  others  to  think  hard  of 
him  for  being  suspected  and  distrusted.  Yet  all  this 
reached  not  his  ears,  and  the  first  betrayal  of  it  was 
from  the  lips  of  Chat-ou6,  when,  in  his  cups,  he  un- 
expectedly invited  the  schoolmaster  to  leave  Grande 
Pointe. 

After  that,  even  the  unconscious  schoolmaster  could 
feel  the  faint  chill  of  estrangement.  But  he  laid  it 
not  to  his  work,  but  to  his  personal  unloveliness,  and 


LOVE  AND  DUTY.  103 

said  to  'Mian  he  did  not  doubt  if  he  were  more  enga- 
ging there  would  not  be  so  many  maidens  kept  at  the 
wheel  and  loom  in  the  priceless  hours  of  school,  or  so 
many  strapping  youths  sent,  all  unlettered,  to  the 
sugar-kettles  of  the  coast  plantations  what  time  M'sieu* 
Walleece  big-in  to  gryne. 

''  'Tain't  dat,"  said  'Mian.  He  had  intended  to  tell 
the  true  reason,  but  his  heart  failed  him ;  and  when 
Bonaventure  asked  what,  then,  it  was,  he  replied: 

''  Aw,  dey  don't  got  no  time.  Time  run  so  fas',  — 
run  like  a  scared  dog.  I  dunno  fo'  w'at  dey  make 
dat  time  run  so  fas'  dat  way." 

"  O  my  friend,"  cried  the  young  schoolmaster,  leap- 
ing from  his  chair,  "say  not  that!  If  God  did  not 
make  time  to  p'oceed  with  rapidness,  who  would  ever 
do  his  best?" 

It  was  such  lessons  as  this  that  made  the  children  — 
Crebiche  among  them  —  still  gather  round  the  humble 
master  and  love  to  grasp  his  hand. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

LOVE    AND    DUTY. 

Time  ran  fast.  The  seasons  were  as  inexorable  at 
Grande  Pointe  as  elsewhere.  But  there  was  no  fierce- 
ness in  them.  The  very  frosts  were  gentle.  Slowly 
and  kindly  they  stripped  the  green  robes  from  many 
a  tree,  from  many  a  thicket  ejected  like  defaulting 


104  BONAVENTURE. 

tenants  the  bine  linnet,  the  orchard  oriole,  the  non- 
pareil, took  down  all  its  leafy  hangings  and  left  it 
open  to  the  winds  and  rain  of  December.  The  wet 
ponies  and  kine  tnrned  away  from  the  the  north  and 
stood  in  the  slanting  storm  with  bowed  heads.  The 
great  wall  of  cypress  swamp  grew  spectral.  Bnt  its 
depths,  the  marshes  far  beyond  sight  behind  them, 
and  the  little,  hidden,  rnsliy  lakes,  were  alive  with 
game.  No  snake  crossed  the  path.  Under  the  roof, 
on  the  galerie,  the  wheel  hummed,  the  loom  pounded  ; 
inside,  the  logs  crackled  and  blazed  on  the  hearth  ;  on 
the  board  were  venison,  mallard,  teal,  rice-birds,  sirop 
de  baterie^  and  quitte;  round  the  fireside  were  pipes, 
pecans,  old  stories,  and  the  Saturda3'-night  contra- 
dance  ;  and  every  now  and  then  came  sounding  on  the 
outer  air  the  long,  hoarse  bellow  of  some  Mississippi 
steamer,  telling  of  the  great  world  beyond  the  tree- 
tops,  a  little  farther  than  the  clouds  and  nearer  than 
the  stars. 

Christmas  passed,  and  New  Year  —  time  runs  so 
fast !  Presently  yonder  was  'Mian  himself,  spading 
a  piece  of  ground  to  sow  his  tobacco-seed  in  ;  then 
Catou  and  his  little  boy  of  twenty-five  doing  likewise  ; 
and  then  others  all  about  the  scattered  village.  Then 
there  was  a  general  spreading  of  dry  brush  over  the 
spaded  ground,  then  the  sweet,  clean  smell  of  its  burn- 
ing, and,  hanging  everywhere  throughout  the  clearing, 
its  thin  blue  smoke.  The  little  frogs  began  to  pipe  to 
each  other  again  in  every  wet  place,  the  grass  began 
to  freshen,  and  almost  in  the  calendar's  midwinter  the 
smiles  of  spring  were  wreathing  everywhere. 


LOVE  AND   DUTY.  105 

What  of  the  schoolmaster  and  the  children  ?  Much, 
much  !  The  good  work  went  on.  Intense  da3's  for 
Bonaventure.  The  clouds  of  disfavor  darklinor  in 
some  places,  but  brightening  in  others,  and,  on  the 
whole,  he  hoped  and  believed,  breaking.  A  few  days 
of  vacation,  and  then  a  bright  re-union  and  resumption, 
the  children  all  his  faithful  adherents  save  one  — 
Sidonie.  She,  a  close  student,  too,  but  growingly 
distant  and  reticent.  The  State  Superintendent  still 
believed  to  be  — 

"  Impending,  impending,  chil'run  !  he  is  impending  ! 
Any  day  he  may  precipitate  upon  us  !  " 

Intense  days,  too,  for  Claude.  Sidonie  openly,  and 
oh,  so  sweetly,  his  friend.  Loving  him?  He  could 
neither  say  nor  know ;  enough,  for  the  present,  to  be 
allowed  to  love  her.  His  love  knew  no  spirit  of  con- 
quest yet ;  it  was  star-worship  ;  it  was  angel  adoration  ; 
seraphically  pure  ;  something  so  celestially  refined  that 
had  it  been  a  tangible  object  you  could  have  held  it 
np  and  seen  the  stars  right  through  it.  The  thought 
of  acquisition  would  have  seemed  like  coveting  the 
gold  of  a  temple.  And  3^et  already  the  faintest  hint 
of  loss  was  intolerable.  Oh  !  this  happy,  happy  school- 
going,  —  this  faring  sumptuously  on  one  smile  a  day  ! 
Ah,  if  it  might  but  continue  !  But  alas  !  how  Sidonie 
was  growing  !  Growing,  growing  daily  !  up,  up,  up  ! 
While  he  —  there  was  a  tree  in  the  swamp  where  he 
measured  his  stature  every  day  ;  but  io  vain,  in  vain  ! 
It  never  budged  !  And  then  -^  all  at  once  —  like  the 
rose-vine  on  her  galerie,  Sidonie  burst  into  bloom. 
Her  smiles  were  kinder  and  more  frequent  now  thau 


1 06  BONA  YEN rURE. 

ever  before  ;  but  the  bo^^'s  heart  was  wrung.  What 
chance  now?  In  four  long  years  to  come  he  would 
not  yet  be  quite  nineteen,  and  she  was  fifteen  now. 
Four  years !  He  was  in  no  hurry  himself  —  could 
wait  forever  and  be  happy  every  day  of  it;  but  she? 
Such  prize  as  she,  somebody  would  certainly  bear  away 
before  three  years  could  run  by,  run  they  ever  so  fast. 

Sitting  and  pondering  one  evening  in  the  little  bayou 
cabin,  Claude  caught  the  father's  e^^e  upon  him,  leaned 
his  forehead  upon  the  parent's  knee,  and  silently  wept. 
The  rough  woodman  said  a  kind  word,  and  the  boy, 
without  lifting  his  burning  face,  told  his  love.  The 
father  made  no  reply  for  a  long  time,  and  then  he 
said  in  their  quaint  old  French  : 

"  Claude,  tell  the  3'oung  schoolmaster.  Of  all  men, 
he  is  the  one  to  help  3'ou."  And  then  in  English,  as 
3'ou  would  quote  Latin,  "  Knowledge  is  power  I  " 

The  next  day  he  missed  —  failed  miserably  —  in 
every  lesson.  At  its  close  he  sat  at  his  desk,  crushed. 
Bonaventure  seemed  scarce  less  tempest-tossed  than 
he ;  and  all  about  the  school  the  distress  spread  as 
wintry  gray  overcasts  a  sky.  Only  Sidonie  moved 
calmly  her  accustomed  round,  like  some  fair,  silent, 
wide-winged  bird  circling  about  a  wreck. 

At  length  the  lad  and  his  teacher  were  left  alone. 
Claude  sat  vei'y  still,  looking  at  his  toil-worn  hands 
l3'ing  crossed  on  the  desk.  Presently  there  sank  an 
arm  across  his  shoulders.  It  was  the  master's.  Drop 
—  drop  —  two  big  tears  fell  upon  the  rude  desk's 
sleeve-polished  wood.  The  small,  hard,  right  hand 
slowly  left  its  fellow,  and  rubbed  off  the  wet  spots. 


LOVE  AND  DUTY.  107 

"  Claude,  3^011  have  somethiug  to  disclose  me?  " 

The  drooping  head  nodded. 

'*  And  'tis  not  something  done  wrongly?  " 

The  lad  shook  his  head. 

"  Then,  my  poor  Claude,"  — the  teacher's  own  voice 
faltered  for  a  moment,  —  "  then  —  'tis  —  'tis  she  !  " 
He  stroked  the  weeping  head  that  sank  into  its  hands. 
"  Ah  !  yes,  Claude,  yes  ;  'tis  she  ;  'tis  she  !  And  you 
want  me  to  help  you.  Alas  !  in  vain  you  want  me ! 
I  cannot  even  try-y-y  to  help  you  ;  you  have  men- 
tioned it  too  lately !  'Tis  right  you  come  to  me, 
despiting  discrepancy  of  years  ;  but  alas  !  the  dif/culty 
lies  in  the  con^?*ary  ;  for  alas  !  Claude,  our  two  heart' 
are  of  the  one,  same  age  !  " 

They  went  out ;  and  walking  side  by  side  toward  the 
failing  sun,  with  the  humble  flowers  of  the  field  and 
path  newly  opened  and  craving  leave  to  live  about  their 
feet  and  knees,  Bonaventure  Deschamps  revealed  his 
own  childlike  heart  to  the  simple  boy  whose  hand 
clasped  his. 

''Yes,  yes;  I  conceal  not  from  you,  Claude,  that 
'tis  not  alone  'thou  lovest,'  but  'I  love'!  If  with 
cause  to  hope,  Claude,  I  know  not.  And  I  must  not 
search  to  know  whilst  yet  the  schoolmaster.  And  the 
same  to  you,  Claude,  whilst  yet  a  scholah.  We  mus' 
let  the  dissimulation  like  a  worm  in  the  bud  to  h-eat 
our  cheek.  'Tis  the  voice  of  honor  cry  —  'Silence.' 
And  during  the  meanwhilst,  you?  Perchance  at  the 
last,  the  years  passing  and  you  enlarging  in  size  daily 
and  arriving  to  budding  manhood,  ma}'  be  the  success- 
ful ;  for  suspect  not  I  consider  lightly  the  younguess 


108  BONAVENTURE. 

of  3'o'  passion.  Attend  what  I  shall  reveal  yon. 
Claude,  there  once  was  a  boy,  yo'  size,  yo'  age,  but 
fierce,  selfish,  disteraperate ;  still  more  selfish  than  yo' 
schoolmaster  of  to-day."  And  there  that  master  went 
on  to  tell  of  an  early  —  like  Claude's,  an  all  too  early 
—  rash,  and  boyish  passion,  whose  ragged  wound, 
that  he  had  thought  never  could  heal,  was  now  only  a 
tender  scar. 

"And  3'ou,  too,  Claude,  though  now  it  seem  not 
possible  —  you  shall  recuperate  from  this.  But  why 
saj'  I  thus?  Think  you  I  would  inoculate  the  idea 
that  you  must  despair?  Nay,  perchance  you  shall 
achieve  her."  They  stood  near  the  lad's  pirogue 
about  to  say  adieu  ;  the  schoolmaster  waved  his  hand 
backward  toward  the  farther  end  of  the  village.  "  Siie 
is  there  ;  in  a  short  time  she  will  cease  to  continue 
scholah  ;  then  —  try."  And  again,  with  still  more 
courageous  kindness,  he  repeated,  "  Tr}^  'Tis  a 
lesson  that  thou  shouldest  heed  —  try,  try  again.  If 
at  the  first  thou  doest  not  succeed,  try,  try  again." 

Claude  gazed  gratefully  into  the  master's  face.  B03' 
that  he  was,  he  did  not  read  aright  the  anguish  gather- 
ing there.  From  his  own  face  the  clouds  melted  into 
a  glad  sunshine  of  courage,  resolve,  and  anticipation. 
Bonaveuture  saw  the  spark  of  hope  that  he  had  dropped 
into  the  boy's  heart  blaze  up  into  his  face.  And  what 
did  Claude  see?  The  hot  blood  mounting  to  the  mas- 
ter's brow  an  instant  ere  he  wheeled  and  hurried  away. 

"  'Sieur  Bonaventure  !  "  exclaimed  Claude  ;  "  '8ieur 
Bonaveuture  !  " 

But   deaf   to   all    tones   alike,    Bonaventure    moved 


LOVE  AND  DUTr.  109 

straight  away  along  the  the  bushy  path,  and  was 
presently  gone  from  sight.  There  is  a  repentance  of 
good  deeds.  Bonaventure  Deschamps  felt  it  gnawing 
and  tearing  hard  and  harder  within  his  bosom  as  he 
strode  on  through  the  wild  vernal  growth  that  closed 
in  the  view  on  every  side.  Soon  he  halted ;  then 
turned,  and  began  to  retrace  his  steps. 

"Claude!"  The  tone  was  angry  and  imperative. 
No  answer  came.  He  quickened  his  gait.  "Claude  !  " 
The  voice  was  petulant  and  imperious.  A  turn  of  the 
path  brought  again  to  view  the  spot  where  the  two  had 
so  lately  parted.  No  one  was  there.  He  moaned  and 
then  cried  aloud,  "  O  thou  fool,  fool,  fool !  —  Claude  !  " 
He  ran;  faster  —  faster  — down  the  path,  away  from 
all  paths,  down  the  little  bayou's  margin,  into  the 
bushes,  into  the  mud  and  water.  "Claude!  Claude! 
I  told  you  wrongly !  Stop  !  Arretez-la  !  I  must  add 
somewhat!  —  Claude!"  The  bushes  snatched  away 
his  hat ;  tore  his  garments ;  bled  him  in  hands  and 
face ;  yet  on  he  went  into  the  edge  of  the  forest. 
"Claude!  Ah!  Claude,  thou  hast  ruin'  me!  Stop, 
you  young  rascal  I  —  thief  !  —  robber  !  —  brigand  ! "  A 
vine  caught  and  held  him  fast.  "  Claude  !  Claude  !  " 
—  The  echoes  multiplied  the  sound,  and  scared  from 
their  dead-tree  roost  a  flock  of  vultures.  The  dense 
wood  was  wrapping  the  little  bayou  in  its  premature 
twilight.  The  retreating  sun,  that  for  a  while  had  shot 
its  flaming  arrows  through  the  black  boles  and  branches, 
had  sunk  now  and  was  gone.  Only  a  parting  ruby 
glow  shone  through  the  tangle  where  far  and  wide  the 
echoes  were  caUing  for  Claude » 


110  BONA  VEN T UR E. 

*'  Claude  I  I  mistook  the  facts  ia  the  case.  There 
is  no  hope  for  you  !  'Tis  futile  you  try  —  the  poem  is 
not  for  you  !  I  take  every  thing  back  !  —  all  back  ! 
You  shall  not  once  try  !  You  have  grasp'  the  advan- 
tage !  You  got  no  business,  you  little  rascal !  You 
dare  venture  to  attempt  making  love  in  my  school ! 
Claude  St.  Pierre,  you  are  dismiss'  the  school !  Mu- 
tiny !  mutiny !  Claude  St.  Pierre,  for  mutinizing,  ex- 
cluded the  Gran'  Point'  school." 

He  tore  himself  from  his  fastenings  and  hastened 
back  toward  the  village.  The  tempest  within  him  was 
as  fierce  as  ever ;  but  already  it,  too,  had  turned  and 
was  coming  out  of  the  opposite  quarter.  The  better 
Bonaveuture  —  the  Bonaventure  purified  bv  fires  that 
Grande  Pointe  had  no  knowledge  of  —  was  coming 
back  into  his  gentle  self-mastery.  And  because  that 
other,  that  old-time  Bonaventure,  bound  in  chains 
deep  down  within,  felt  already  the  triumph  of  a 
moment  slipping  from  his  grasp,  he  silentl}^  now  to 
the  outer  air,  but  loudly  within,  railed  and  gnashed 
and  tore  himself  the  more. 

He  regained  the  path  and  humed  along  it,  hatless, 
dishevelled,  bespattered,  and  oblivious  to  ever}-  thing 
save  the  war  within.  Presently  there  came  upon  him 
the  knowledge,  the  certain  knowledge,  that  Claude 
would  come  the  next  morning  and  ring  the  chapel  bell, 
take  his  seat  in  school,  stand  in  all  his  classes,  know 
every  lesson,  and  go  home  in  the  evening  happy  and 
all  unchallenged  of  him.     He  groaned  aloud. 

*'  Ah !  Claude !  To  dismiss  or  not  to  dismiss,  it 
shall  not  be  mine !    But  it  shall  be  thine,  Sidouie  I    And 


AT  CLAUDE'S  MERCY.  Ill 

whether  she  is  for  thee,  Claude—  so  juvenile  !  —  or  for 
me,  so  unfit,  unfit,  unfit!  — Ah!  Sidonie,  choose  not 
3'et!"  —  He  stood  rooted  to  the  spot;  while  within 
easy  earshot  of  his  lightest  word  tripped  brightl}^  and 
swiftly  across  the  path  from  the  direction  of  the  chapel 
a  fawn,  Claude's  gift,  and  its  mistress,  Sidonie  —  as 
though  she  neither  saw  nor  heard. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 
AT  Claude's  mercy. 


Time  flagged  not.  The  school  shone  on,  within  its 
walls  making  glad  the  teacher  and  the  pupils  with  ever 
new  achievements  in  knowledge  and  excellence.  Some 
of  the  vanguard  —  Claude,  Sidonie,  Etienne,  Made- 
laine,  Henri,  Marcelline  —  actually  going  into  the 
Third  Reader.  Such  perfection  in  lessons  as  they  told 
about  at  home  —  such  mastery  of  English,  such  satis- 
factory results  in  pronunciation  and  emphasis  !  Read- 
ing just  as  they  talked?  Oh,  no,  a  thousand  times  no  ! 
The  school's  remoter  light,  its  secondary  influences, 
slowly  spreading,  but  so  slowly  that  only  the  eyes  of 
enmity  could  see  its  increase.  There  were  murmurs 
and  head-shakings ;  but  the  thirteenth  Sunday  of  the 
year's  first  quarter  came,  and  the  sermon  whose  with- 
holding had  been  threatened  was  preached.  And  on 
the  thirteenth  Monday  there  was  Bonaventure,  still 
moving  quietly  across  the  green   toward    the   school- 


112  BONAVENTURE. 

bouse  with  the  children  all  about    him.      But   a    few 
days  later  the  unexpected  happened. 

By  this  time  Claude's  father,  whose  teacher,  you 
remember,  was  Claude,  had  learned  to  read.  One  day 
a  surveyor,  who  had  employed  him  as  a  guide,  seeing 
tlie  Acadian  laboring  over  a  fragment  of  rural  news- 
paper, fell  into  conversation  with  him  as  thej'  sat 
smoking  by  their  camp-fire,  and  presently  caught  some 
hint  of  8t.  Pierre's  aspirations  for  himself  and  his  son. 

"  So  there's  a  public  school  at  Grande  Pointe,  is 
there?" 

"Oh,  yass ;  fine  school;  hondred  feet  long  I  and 
fine  titcher  ;  splendid  titcher  ;  titch  English." 

"  Well,  well  I  "  laughed  the  surveyor.  "  Well,  the 
next  thing  will  be  a  railroad." 

St.  Pierre's  eyes  lighted  up. 

"Yout'ink!" 

"  AVhy,  yes;  you  can't  keep  railroads  away  from  a 
place  long,  once  you  let  in  the  public  school  and  teach 
English." 

"  You  t'ink  dass  good?  " 

"What,  a  railroad?  Most  certainly.  It  brings 
immigration." 

"  Whass  dat  — 'migrasb'n?'* 

The  surveyor  explained. 

The  next  time  St.  Pierre  came  to  Grande  Pointe  — 
to  sell  some  fish  —  he  came  armed  with  two  great 
words  for  the  final  overthrow  of  all  opponents  of 
enlightenment :  "  Rellroad  !  —  'Migrash'n  !  " 

The}'  had  a  profound  and  immediate  effect  —  exactly 
the  opposite  of  what  he  had  expected. 


AT  CLAUDE'S  MEBCT.  113 

The  school  had  just  been  dismissed ;  the  children 
were  still  in  sight,  dispersing  this  wa}^  and  that. 
Sidooie  lingered  a  moment  at  her  desk,  putting  it  in 
order  ;  Claude,  taking  all  the  time  he  could,  was  getting 
his  canoe-paddle  from  a  corner  ;  Crebiche  was  waiting, 
b}'  the  master's  command,  to  repair  some  default  of 
the  day  ;  and  Ton  ton,  outside  on  his  knees  in  the  grass 
catching  grasshoppers,  was  tarrying  for  his  sister ; 
when  four  or  five  of  the  viHage's  best  men  came  slowly 
and  hesitatingly  in.  It  required  no  power  of  divina- 
tion for  even  the  pre-occupied  schoolmaster  to  guess 
the  nature  of  their  errand.  'Mian  was  not  among 
them.  Catou  was  at  their  head.  They  silently  bowed. 
The  schoolmaster  as  silently  responded.  The  visitors 
huddled  together.     They  came  a  step  nearer. 

"  Well,"  said  Catou,  "we  come  to  see  you." 

"  Sirs,  welcome  to  Gran'  Point'  school. — Sidonie, 
Crebiche,  Claude,  rest  in  yo'  seats." 

"Mo'  betteh  you  tu'u  'em  loose,  I  t'ink,"  said 
Catou  amiably  ;  "  ain't  it?  " 

"I  rather  they  stay,"  replied  Bonaventure.  All 
sat  down.  There  was  a  sustained  silence,  and  then 
Catou  said  with  quiet  abruptness  : 

"  We  dawn't  want  no  mo'  school !  " 

' '  From  what  cause  ?  ' ' 

"'Taiu't  no  use." 

"Sir — sirs,  no  use?  'Tis  every  use  !  The  school- 
house?  'tis  mo'  worth  than  the  gole  mine.  Ah!  sirs, 
tell  me  :  what  is  gole  without  education?" 

They  confronted  the  riddle  for  a  moment. 

"  Ed'cation  want  to  change  every  thin'  —  rellroad — • 
'migrash'n." 


114  BONAVENTUBE. 

*'  Change  evei-y  thing?  Yes  !  —  making  every  thing 
better!  Sirs,  where  is  that  country  that  the  people 
are  sorry  that  the  railroad  and  the  schoolhouse  have 
come?"  Again  the  riddle  went  unanswered;  but 
Catou  sat  as  if  in  meditation,  looking  to  one  side,  and 
presently  said  : 

''  I  t'ink  dass  all  humbug,  dat  titchin'  English. 
What  want  titch  English  faw?" 

"Sir,"  cried  Bonaventure,  "  in  America  you  mus' 
be  American !  Three  Acadians  have  been  governor 
of  Louisiana!  AVhat  made  them  thus  to  become?" 
He  leaned  forward  and  smote  his  hands  together. 
"  What  was  it?     'Twas  English  education  !  " 

The  men  were  silent  again.  Catou  pushed  his  feet 
out,  and  looked  at  his  shoes,  put  on  for  the  occasion. 
Presently  — 

"Yass,"  he  said,  in  an  unconvinced  tone;  "  yass, 
dass  all  right:  but  how  we  know  you  titch  PZnglish? 
Nobody  can't  tell  3'ou  titchin'  him  right  or  no." 

"And  yet  —  I  do!  And  the  time  approach  when 
3^ou  shall  know !  Sirs,  I  make  to  you  a  p'oposition. 
Time  is  passing.  It  must  lie  soon  the  State  Sup'in- 
ten'ent  Public  Education  visit  this  school.  The  school 
is  any  time  ready.  Since  long  time  are  we  waiting. 
He  shall  come  —  he  shall  examine  !  The  chil'run  shall 
be  ignorant  this  arrangement !  Only  these  shall  know 
—  Claude,  Sidonie,  Cr^bichc  ;  they  will  not  disclose! 
And  the  total  chil'run  shall  exhibit  all  their  previous 
learning !  And  welcome  the  day,  when  the  adver- 
saries of  education  shall  see  those  dear  chil'run  stan' 
up  befo'  the  assem'led  Gran'  Point'  spelling  co'ectly 


AT  CLAUDE'S  METtCY.  115 

words  of  one  to  eight  syllable'  and  reading  from  tlieir 
readers!  And  if  one  miss  —  \i  one  —  one!  miss,  then 
let  the  school  be  shut  and  the  schoolmaster  banish-ed  !  " 

It  was  so  agreed.  The  debate  did  not  cease  at  once, 
bnt  it  languished.  Catou  thought  he  had  made  one 
strong  point  when  he  objected  to  education  as  condu- 
cive to  idle  habits  ;  but  when  the  schoolmaster  hurled 
back  the  fact  that  communities  the  world  over  are  in- 
dustrious just  in  proportion  as  they  are  educated,  he 
was  done.  He  did  not  know,  but  when  he  confronted 
the  assertion  it  looked  so  true  that  he  could  not  doubt 
it.     He  only  said  : 

''Well,  anyhow,  I  t'ink  'tain't  no  use  Crebiche  go 
school  no  mo'."  But  when  Bonaventure  pleaded  for 
the  lad's  continuance,  that  too  was  agreed  upon.  The 
men  departed. 

"Crebiche,"  said  the  master,  holding  the  boy's 
hand  at  parting,  "  ah  !  Crebiche,  if  thou  become  not  a 
good  scholar"  —  and  read  a  promise  in  the  boy's 
swimming  eyes. 

"  Claude,  Claude,  I  am  at  yo'  mercy  now."  But 
the  honest  gaze  of  Claude  and  the  pressure  of  his  small 
strong  hand  were  a  pledge.  The  grateful  master  turned 
to  Sidonie,  and  again,  as  of  old,  no  Sidonie  was  there. 


116  BONAVENTUHE. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

READY. 

Summer  came.  The  song-birds  were  all  l:)ack  again, 
waking  at  dawn,  and  making  the  hoary  cypress  wood 
merry  with  their  carollings  to  the  wives  and  younglings 
in  the  nests.  Busy  times.  Foraging  on  the  helpless 
enemy  —  earth-worm,  gnat,  grub,  grasshopper,  weevil, 
sawyer,  dragon-fly  —  from  morning  till  night :  watching 
for  him  ;  scratching  for  him  ;  picking,  pecking,  boring 
for  him  ;  poising,  swooping,  darting  for  him  ;  standing 
upside  down  and  peering  into  chinks  for  him  ;  and  all 
for  the  luxury  —  not  of  knowledge,  but  of  love  and 
marriage.  The  mocking-bird  had  no  rest  whatever. 
Back  and  forth  from  dawn  to  dark,  back  and  forth 
across  and  across  Grande  Poiute  clearing,  always  one 
way  empty  and  the  other  way  with  his  beak  full  of 
marketing  ;  and  then  sitting  up  on  an  average  half  the 
night — sometimes  the  whole  of  it  —  at  his  own  con- 
cert.  And  with  military  duties  too ;  patrolling  the 
earth  below,  a  large  part  of  it,  and  all  the  upper  air ; 
driving  off  the  weasel,  the  black  snake,  the  hawk,  the 
jay,  the  buzzard,  the  crow,  and  all  that  brigand  crew 
—  busy  times!  All  nature  in  glad,  gay  earnest. 
Corn  in  blossom  and  rustling  in  the  warm  breeze; 
blackberries  ripe;  morning-glories  under  foot;  the 
trumpet-flower  flaring  from  its  dense  green  vine  high 
above  on  the  naked,  girdled  tree ;  the  cotton-j>lant 
blooming  white,  yellow,  and  red  in  the  field  beneath ; 


READY.  IIT 

honey  a-making  in  the  hives  and  hollow  trees  ;  butter- 
flies and  bees  lingering  in  the  fields  at  sunset;  the 
moth  venturing  forth  at  the  first  sign  of  dew  ;  and 
Sidonie  —  a  wild-rose  tree. 

Mark  you,  this  was  in  Grande  Pointe.  I  have  seen 
the  wild  flower  taken  from  its  cool  haunt  in  the  forest, 
and  planted  in  the  glare  of  a  city  garden.  Alas  !  the 
plight  of  it,  poor  outshone,  wilting,  odorless  thing! 
And  then  I  have  seen  it  again  in  the  forest ;  and  pleas- 
anter  than  to  fill  the  lap  with  roses  and  tulips  of  the 
conservatory's  blood-royal  it  was  to  find  it  there,  once 
more  the  simple  queen  of  that  green  solitude. 

So  Sidonie.  Acadian  maidens  are  shy  as  herons. 
They  always  see  you  first.  They  see  you  first,  silently 
rise,  and  are  gone  —  from  the  galerie.  They  are  more 
shy  than  violets.  You  would  think  they  lived  whole 
days  with  those  dark,  black-fringed  eyes  cast  down  ; 
but  —  they  see  you  first.  The  work  about  the  house  is 
well  done  where  they  are ;  there  are  apt  to  be  flowers 
outside  round  about ;  while  they  themselves  are  as  Paul 
desired  to  see  the  women  in  bishop  Timothy's  church, 
''adorned  in  modest  apparel,  with  shamefacedness  and 
sobriety." 

Flowers  sprang  plentifully  where  Sidonie  dwelt. 
Her  best  homespun  gown  was  her  own  weaving ;  the 
old  dog  lying  on  the  galerie  always  thumped  the  floor 
with  his  tail  and  sank  his  obsequious  head  as  that  robe 
passed  ;  the  fawn  —  that  Claude  had  brought  —  would 
come  trotting  and  press  its  head  against  it ;  all  the 
small  living  things  of  the  dooryard  would  follow  it 
about ;    and  if   she  stood  by  the  calf-pen  the  calves 


118  BONA  VENTURE. 

would  push  each  other  for  the  nearest  place,  lay  their 
cheeks  upon  the  fence's  top,  and  roll  their  eyes  —  as 
many  a  youth  of  Grande  Poiute  would  have  done  if  he 
might.  Chat-ou6,  —  I  fear  I  have  omitted  to  mention 
that  the  father  of  Crebiche,  like  the  father  of  Claude, 
had  lost  his  wife  before  he  was  of  age, — Chat-ou6 
looked  often  over  that  fence. 

When  matters  take  that  shape  a  girl  must  quit  school. 
And  3'et  Sidonie,  when  after  a  short  vacation  the 
school  resumed  its  sessions,  resumed  with  it.  Toutou, 
who  had  to  admit  now  that  his  sister  was  even  more 
grand  for  her  age  than  he,  was  always  available  for 
protection.  There  was  no  wonder  that  Sidonie  wished 
to  continue  ;  Bonaventure  explained  why  : 

"  So  interesting  is  that  McGuffey's  Third  Reader  !  " 

Those  at  home  hesitated,  and  presently  it  was  the 
first  of  October.  Now  it  was  too  late  to  withdraw  ; 
the  examination  was  to  take  place.  The  school's  op- 
ponents had  expressed  little  impatience  at  the  State 
Superintendent's  weary  delay,  but  at  length  Catou 
asked,  "  Why  dat  man  don't  nevva  come  !  " 

"  The  wherefore  of  his  non-coming  I  ignore,"  said 
Bonaventure,  with  a  look  of  old  pain  in  his  young 
face ;  "  but  I  am  ready,  let  him  come  or  let  him  come 
not." 

"  'Tain't  no  use  wait  no  longer,"  said  Catou;  "  jis 
well  have  yo'  lil  show  widout  him." 

"Sir,  it  shall  be  had  I  Kevolution  never  go  back- 
wood  I  ' ' 

Much  was  the  toil,  many  the  anxieties,  of  the  prepa- 
ration.    For  Bonaventure  at  once  determined  to  make 


CONSPIRACY.  119 

the  affair  more  than  an  examination.  He  set  its  date 
on  the  anniversary  of  the  day  when  he  had  come  to 
Grande  Pointe.  From  such  a  day  Sidonie  could  not 
be  spared.  She  was  to  say  a  piece,  a  poem,  an  apos- 
trophe to  a  star.  A  child,  beholding  the  little  star  in 
the  heavens,  and  wondering  what  it  can  be,  sparkling 
diamond-like  so  high  up  above  the  world,  exhorts  it 
not  to  stop  twinkling  on  his  account.  But  to  its  ten- 
der regret  the  school  knew  that  no  more  thereafter  was 
Sidonie  to  twinkle  in  its  firmament. 

"Learn  yo'  lessons  hard,  chil'run ;  if  the  State 
Sup'inten'ent,  even  at  the  last,  you  know  "  —  Bona- 
venture  could  not  believe  that  this  important  outpost 
had  been  forgotten. 


CHAPTER    X. 

CONSPIRACY. 

About  this  time  a  certain  Mr.  Tarbox  —  G.  W. 
Tarbox  —  was  travelling  on  horseback  and  touching 
from  house  to  house  of  the  great  sugar-estates  of  the 
river  "coast,'*  seeing  the  country  and  people,  and 
allowing  the  elite  to  subscribe  to  the  "  Album  of  Uni- 
versal Information." 

One  Sunday,  resting  at  College  Point,  he  was  led  by 
curiosity  to  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  three  men 
who  had  come  in  from  Grande  Pointe.  One  of  them 
was  Chat-oue.     He  could  understand  them,  and  make 


120  BONAVENTURE. 

them  understand  him,  well  enough  to  pla}-  vingt  et  un 
with  them  the  whole  forenoon.  He  won  all  their 
money,  drank  with  them,  and  took  their  five  subscrip- 
tions, Chat-ou6  taking  three — one  for  himself,  one  for 
Catou,  and  one  for  Crebiche.  There  was  no  delivery 
of  goods  there  and  then  ;  they  could  not  write ;  but 
they  made  their  marks,  and  it  was  agreed  that  when 
Mr.  Tarbox  should  come  along  a  few  days  later  to  de- 
liver the  volumes,  they  were  not  to  be  received  or  paid 
for  until  with  his  scholarly  aid  the  impostor  who  pie- 
tended  to  teach  English  education  at  Grande  Poiute 
had  been  put  to  confusion  and  to  flight. 

"All  right,"  said  Tarbox;  "all  right.  I'm  the 
kind  of  State  Superintendent  you  w\ant.  I  like  an 
adventure ;  and  if  there's  any  thing  I  just  love,  it's 
exposing  a  fraud !  What  day  shall  I  come  ?  Yes,  I 
understand  —  middle  of  the  day.     I'll  be  on  hand." 

The  fateful  day  came.  In  every  house  and  on  every 
galerie  the  morning  tasks  were  early  done.  Then  the 
best  of  every  wardrobe  was  put  on,  the  sun  soared 
high,  and  bj'  noon  every  chair  in  Grande  Poiute  was 
in  the  tobacco-shed  where  knowledge  poured  forth  her 
beams,  and  was  occupied  by  one  or  two  persons.  And 
then,  at  last,  the  chapel  bell  above  Claude's  head 
pealed  out  the  final  signal,  and  the  schoolmaster  moved 
across  the  green.  Bonaventure  Deschamps  was  weary. 
Had  aught  gone  wrong?  Far  from  it.  But  the  work 
bad  been  great,  and  it  was  now  done.  Every  thing  was 
at  stake:  the  cause  of  enlightenment  and  the  fortunes 
of  his  heart  hung  on  tlie  issue  of  tlie  next  few  hours. 
Three  pupils,  one  the  oftenest  rebuked  of  all  the  school, 


CONSPIRACY.  121 

one  his  rival  in  love,  one  the  queen  of  his  heart,  held 
his  fate  in  their  hands  and  knew  it.  With  these 
thoughts  mingled  the  pangs  of  an  uncoufessed  passion 
aud  the  loneliness  of  a  benevolent  nature  famishing  for 
a  word  of  thanks.  Yea,  and  to-day  he  must  be  his  own 
judge. 

His  coat  was  on  his  arm,  and  the  children  round 
about  him  in  their  usual  way  as  they  came  across  the 
common  ;  but  his  words,  always  so  kind,  were,  on  this 
day  of  all  days,  so  dejected  and  so  few  that  the  little 
ones  stole  glances  into  his  face  aud  grew  silent.  Then, 
all  at  once,  he  saw, — yea,  verily,  he  .saw,  — standing 
near  the  school  entrance,  a  man  from  the  great  outer 
world ! 

He  knew  it  by  a  hundred  signs  —  the  free  attitude, 
the  brilliant  silk  hat,  the  shaven  face,  and  every  inch  of 
the  attire.  As  plainly  as  one  knows  a  green  tree  from 
a  dead  one,  the  Crusoe  of  Grande  Pointe  recognized  one 
who  came  fi'om  the  haunts  of  men  ;  from  some  great 
nerve-centre  of  human  knowledge  and  ix)wer  where  the 
human  mind,  trained  and  equipped,  had  piled  up  the 
spoils  of  its  innumerable  conquests.  His  whole  form 
lighted  up  with  a  new  life.  His  voice  trembled  with 
pent  feeling  as  he  said  in  deep  undertone : 

'•■  Be  callm,  chil'run  ;  be  callm.  Refrain  excitement. 
\Yho  you  behole  befo'  you,  yondeh,  I  ignore.  But 
who  shall  we  expect  to  see  if  not  the  State  Sup'inten'- 
ent  Public  Education?  And  if  yea,  then  welcome, 
thrice  welcome,  the  surprise  !  "We  shall  not  inquire 
him  ;  but  as  a  stranger  we  shall  show  him  with  how 
small  reso'ce  how  large  result."     He  put  on  his  coat. 


1 22  BONA  VENTURE. 

Mr.  Tarbox  had  just  reached  the  school-ground. 
His  horse  was  fastened  by  the  bridle  to  a  picket  in  a 
fence  behind  him.  A  few  boys  had  been  out  before 
the  schoolhouse,  and  it  was  the  sudden  cessation  of 
their  clamor  that  had  drawn  Bonaventure's  attention.. 
Some  of  them  were  still  visible,  silently  slipping 
through  the  gaps  in  the  pieux  and  disappearing  within. 
Bonaventure  across  the  distance  marked  him  beckon 
persuasively  to  one  of  them.  The  lad  stopped,  came 
forward,  and  gave  his  hand ;  and  thereupon  a  second, 
a  third,  fourth,  fifth,  tenth,  without  waiting  for  invita- 
tion, emerged  again  and  advanced  to  the  same  grave 
and  silent  ceremony.  Two  or  three  men  who  stood 
near  did  the  same.  The  handshaking  was  just  ending 
when  Bonaventure  and  the  stranger  raised  their  hats 
to  each  other. 

"Trust  I  don't  intrude?" 

"  Sir,  we  are  honored,  not  intruded,  as  you  shall 
witness.  Will  you  give  yourself  the  pain  to  enter  the 
school-place?  I  say  not  schoolhouse  ;  'tis,  as  its  hum- 
ble teacher,  not  fitly  so  nominated.  But  you  shall 
therein  find  a  school  which,  the  more  taken  by  surprise, 
not  the  less  prepared." 

"  The  State  ought  to  build  you  a  good  schoolhouse," 
said  the  stranger,  with  a  slight  frown  that  seemed 
official. 

"Ah!  sir,"  cried  the  young  schoolmaster,  beaming 
gratitude  from  his  whole  surface,  "I  —  I  "  —  he  smote 
his  breast,  —  "I  would  reimburst  her  in  good  citizen' 
and  mother'  of  good  citizen'  !  And  both  reading, 
writing,  and  also  ciphering,  —  arithmeticulating,  in  the 


CONSPIRACY,  123 

English  tongue,  and  grammatically  !  But  enter  and 
investigate." 

A  hush  fell  upon  the  school  and  the  audience  bej^ond 
it  as  the  two  men  came  in.  Every  scholar  was  in  place 
—  the  little  ones  with  bare,  dangling  feet,  their  shapely 
sun-tanned  ankles  just  peeping  from  pantaloons  and 
pantalettes  of  equal  lengtli ;  the  older  lads  beyond 
them  ;  and  off  at  the  left  the  larger  girls,  and  Sidonie. 
The  visitor,  as  his  eye  fell  last  upon  her,  silently  and 
all  to  himself  drew  a  long  whistle  of  admiration.  The 
master  stood  and  eyed  him  with  unspoken  but  confessed 
pride.  A  little  maiden  of  six  slipped  from  the  bench 
to  the  earth  floor,  came  forward,  gave  her  hand,  and 
noiselessly  returned.  One  by  one,  with  eyes  dropped, 
the  remaining  sixteen  girls  followed.  It  seemed  for  a 
moment  as  if  the  contagion  might  break  out  iu  the 
audience,  but  the  symptom  passed. 

There  was  just  room  on  the  teacher's  little  platform 
for  Bonaventure  to  seat  his  visitor  a  little  at  one  side 
and  stand  behind  his  desk.  The  fateful  moment  had 
come.  The  master  stood  nervously  drawn  up,  bell  in 
hand.  With  a  quick,  short  motion  he  gave  it  one  tap, 
and  set  it  down. 

''That,  sir,  is  to  designate  attention!  "  He  waved 
a  triumphant  hand  toward  the  spectacle  before  them. 

"Perfect!"  murmured  the  stranger.  A  look  of 
earnest  ecstasy  broke  out  upon  the  master's  face.  He 
turned  at  first  upon  the  audience  and  then  upon  the 
school. 

"  Chil'run,  chWrun^  he  p'onounce  you  perfect!" 
He  turned  again  upon  the  visitor,  threw  high  his  right 
hand,  tlirted  it  violently,  and  cried :  — 


1 24  B  ON  A  VENTURE. 

"At  raudom !  exclusively  at  random;  state  what 
class  !  at  random  !  " 

"  I  —  I  doubt  if  I  under  "  — 

'^  Name  any  class,  exclusively  at  random,  and  you 
shall  see  with  what  promptness  and  quietude  the  chil- 
'run  shall  take  each  one  their  exactl}'  co'ect  places." 

''Oh,  I  understand.    You  want  me  to  designate  "  — 

"  Any  class  !  at  yo'  caprice." 

*'  Well,  if  you  have  —  third  class  in  geography." 

''Or  spelling?"  cried  Bonaventure,  a  momentary 
look  of  dismay  giving  place  to  fresh  enthusiasm. 

"  Yes  —  spell  —  I  meant  spelling." 

"  Third  spelling  !  "  The  tongue  of  the  bell  fell  with 
the  emphasis,  and  as  silently  as  sleep  the  tiniest  seven 
in  the  school,  four  pairs  of  pantaloons,  three  of  panta- 
lettes, with  seven  of  little  bare  feet  at  their  borders 
and  seven  of  hands  pointed  down  stiffly  at  their  sides, 
came  out  and  stood  a-row.  The  master  turned  to  the 
visitor. 

"  Now,  commencing  wherever,  even  at  the  foot  if 
desired  !  ask,  sir,  if  you  please,  any  English  word  of 
one  s^'Uable,  of  however  difficult !  "^ 

''  No  matter  how  difficult?  " 

"Well,  they  are  timid,  as  you  see;  advance  liy 
degrees." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  the  visitor  with  much  kind- 
ness of  tone  ;    "I  will  ask  the  little  boy  at  this  end  "  — 

"At  the  foot  — but  —  still,  'tis  well.  Only  —  ah, 
Crc^biche !  every  thing  depend !  Be  prepared,  Cr^- 
biche!" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  stranger  ;  "  I  will  ask  him  to  spell 
boss." 


CONSPIRACY.  125 

The  child  drew  hunself  np  rigidly,  pointed  his  stiff- 
ened fingers  down  his  thighs,  rounded  his  pretty  red 
mouth,  and  said  slowly,  in  a  low,  melodious,  distinct 
voice  :  — 

"  '0-double  eth,  awth." 

Bonaventure  leapt  from  the  platform  and  ran  to  the 
child. 

"u47i/  7non  p'tit  gargon  —  ah!  my  lil  boy!  'O- 
double  eth,  listten,  my  chile.  O,  sir,  he  did  not  hear 
the  word  precisely.  Listten,  my  chile,  to  yo'  teacher! 
remember  that  his  honor  and  the  school's  honor  is  in 
yo'  spelling  !  "  He  drew  back  a  step,  poised  himself, 
and  gave  the  word.  It  came  like  an  anchor-chain 
crashing;  throuoh  a  hawse-hole. 

"  Or-r-r-r-rus-seh !  "  And  the  child,  winking  at 
vacancy  in  the  intensity  of  his  attention,  spelled:  — 

*' Haich-o-r-eth-e,  'Orthe." 

The  breathless  audience,  leaning  forward,  read  the 
visitor's  commendation  in  his  face.  Bonaventure, 
beaming  upon  him,  extended  one  arm,  the  other  turned 
toward  the  child,  and  cried,  shaking  both  hands  trem- 
ulousl}' :  — 

''  Another  !  another  word  !  another  to  the  same  !  " 

'*  Mouse,"  said  the  stranger,  and  Bonaventure 
turned  and  cried  :  — 

"  Mah-ooseh  !  my  nob'e  lil  boy  !  Mah-ooseh  !  "  and 
Crebiche,  a  speaking  statue,  spelled  :  — 

*' M-o-u-eth-e,  mouthe." 

"  Co'ect,  my  chile  !  And  yet,  sir,  and  yet,  'tis  he 
that  they  call  Crebiche,  because  like  the  crawfish  ad- 
vancing baekwardly.  But  to  the  next !  another  word  ! 
another  word  !  ' ' 


126  BONAVENTURE. 

The  spelling,  its  excitements,  its  moments  of  ago- 
nizing suspense,  and  its  triumphs,  went  on.  The 
second  class  is  up.  It  spells  in  two,  even  in  three, 
syllables.  Toutou  is  in  it.  He  gets  tremendousl}" 
wrought  up  ;  cannot  keep  two  feet  on  the  ground  at 
once ;  spells  fast  when  the  w^ord  is  his ;  smiles  in 
response  to  the  visitor's  smile,  the  only  one  who  dares  ; 
leans  out  and  looks  down  the  line  with  a  knuckle  in  his 
mouth  as  the  spelling  passes  down  ;  wrings  one  hand 
as  his  turn  approaches  again ;  catches  his  word  in 
mid-air  and  tosses  it  ofif,  and  marks  with  ecstasy  the 
triumph  and  pride  written  on  the  face  of  his  master. 

'•But,  sir,"  cries  Bonaventure,  ''why  consume  the 
spelling-book?  Give,  yourself,  if  you  please,  to 
Toutou,  a  word  not  therein  comprise'."  He  glanced 
around  condescendingly  upon  the  people  of  Grande 
Pointe.  Chat-oue  is  in  a  front  seat.  Toutou  gathers 
himself  for  the  spring,  and  the  stranger  ponders  a 
moment  and  then  gives  —  "  Florida  !  " 

"  F-l-o,  flo,  warr-de-warr-da,  —  Florida  !  " 

A  smile  broke  from  the  visitor's  face  unbidden, 
but  — 

"Right!  my  chile!  co'ect,  Toutou  !  "  cried  Bona- 
venture, running  and  patting  the  little  hero  on  the  back 
and  head  by  turns.  "Sir,  let  us" —  He  stopped 
short.  The  eyes  of  the  house  were  on  Chat-oue.  He 
had  risen  to  his  feet  and  made  a  gesture  for  the  vis- 
itor's attention.  As  the  stranger  looked  at  him  he 
asked  :  — 

"  He  spell  dat  las  word  r-i-i-ight?  "  But  the  visitor 
with  quiet  gravity  said,  "Yes,  that  was  all  right;" 


COXSPIRACY.  127 

and  a  companion  pulled  the  Raccoon  down  into  his 
seat  again.     Bona  venture  resumed. 

"  Sir,  let  us  not  exhoss  the  time  with  spelling  !  You 
shall  now  hear  them  read." 

The  bell  taps,  the  class  retires;  again,  and  the 
reading  class  is  up.  They  are  the  larger  girls  and 
boys.  But  before  they  begin  the  master  has  a  word 
for  their  fathers  and  mothers. 

''Friends  and  fellow-citizens  of  Gran'  Point',  think 
not  at  the  suppi-zing  goodness  of  yo'  chil'run'  reading. 
'Tis  to  this  branch  has  been  given  the  largest  attention 
and  most  assi'chi'ty,  so  thus  to  comprise  puffection  in 
the  English  tongue,  whether  speaking  aw  otherwise." 
He  turned  to  the  stranger  beside  him.  ''  I  am  not  sat- 
isfied whilst  the  slightest  accent  of  French  is  remaining. 
But  you  shall  judge  if  they  read  not  as  if  in  their  own 
vernaculary.     And  you  shall  choose  the  piece  !  " 

The  visitor  waived  the  privilege,  but  Bonaventure 
gently  insisted,  and  he  selected  Jane  Taylor's  little 
poem,  ''  The  Violet,"  glancing  across  at  Sidonie  as  he 
himself  read  out  the  first  two  lines  :  — 

''Down  in  a  green  and  shady  bed 
A  modest  violet  grew." 

Bonaventure  proclaimed  the  title  and  page  and 
said :  — 

"  Claude,  p'oceed  !  "     And  Claude  read  :  — 

"  'Dthee  vy  —  ee-lit.     Dah-oon-a  hin  hay  grin  and-a 

shad-y   bade  —  A    mo-dest-a   vy-ee-lit    groo  —  Hits-a 

stallk  whoz  baint  hit  hawngg-a  hits  hade  —  Has  hif-a 

too  hah-ed-a  frawm  ve-6o.    Hand  h-yet  it  whoz  a  lo-vly 


128  BONAVENTURE. 

flow'r  —  Hits-a  co-lors-a  brah-cet  and  fair-a  —  Heet 
mahect-a  have  grass-ed  a  rozzy  bow'r  —  Ileenstade-a 
hof  hah-ce-dingg  there  "  — 

*'  Stop  !  "  cried  Bonaventure  ;  "stop  !  You  pronoun- 
ciate'  a  word  faultily!"  lie  turned  to  the  visitor. 
"I  call  not  that  a  miss;  but  we  must  inoculate  the 
idea  of  puffection.  So  soon  the  sly-y-test  misp'o- 
nouuciating  I  pass  to  the  next."  He  turned  again: 
"  Next !  "  .  And  a  black-haired  girl  began  in  a  higher 
key,  and  verj-  slowly  :  — 

"  Yate  there  eet  whoz  cawntaint-a  too  bulloora  — 
Heen  mo-dest-a  teent  z-arrayed  —  And  there-a  heet 
sprade-a  heets  swit  pre-fume-a  —  Whit-hin  thee  sy-y- 
lent-a  shade  "  — 

"Stop!  Not  that  you  mistook,  but —  'tis  enough. 
Sir,  will  you  give  yourself  the  pain  to  tell  —  not  for 
my  sake  or  reputation,  but  to  the  encouragement  of 
the  chil'run,  and  devoid  flattery  —  what  is  yo'  opinion 
of  that  specimen  of  reading?  Not  t'oubling  you,  but, 
in  two  or  three  word'  only  —  if  you  will  give  yo'self 
the  pain  "  — 

"  Why,  certainly;  I  think  it  is  —  I  can  hardly  find 
words  —  it's  remarkable."  Bonaventure  started  with 
joy. 

"Chil'run,  do  you  hear?  Remawkable !  But  do 
you  not  detect  no  slight  —  no  small  faultiness  of 
p'onounciating?  " 

"No,  not  the  slightest;  I  smile,  but  I  was  think- 
ing of  something  else."  The  visitor's  e3'e,  wandering  a 
trifle,  caught  Chat-ou^  giving  him  one  black  look  that 
removed  his  disposition  to  smile,  yet  he  insisted,  "  No, 


LIGHT,    LOVE,    AND    VICTORY.  129 

sir ;  I  caQ  truthfully  say  I  never  heard  such  a  pro- 
nunciation."    The  audience  drank  his  words. 

"  Sir,"  cried  the  glad  preceptor,  "  'tis  toil  have 
p'oduce  it !  Toil  of  the  teacher,  industry  of  the  chil- 
''run !  But  it  has  p'oduce'  beside!  Sir,  look  —  that 
school !  Since  one  j^ear  commencing  the  ABC  —  and 
now  spelling  word'  of  eight  syllabi'  !  " 

"Not  this  school?" 

"Sir,  you  shall  see  —  or,  more  p'operly,  hear. 
First  spelling !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  stranger,  seeing  Sidonie  rise,  "I'd 
like  to  hear  that  class  ;  "  and  felt  Chat-oue  looking  at 
him  asain. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

LIGHT,    LOVE,    AND    VICTORY. 


The  bell  tapped,  and  they  came  forth  to  battle. 
There  was  the  line,  there  was  the  leader.  The  great 
juncture  of  the  day  was  on  him.  Was  not  here  the 
State's  official  eye?  Did  not  victory  hover  overhead? 
His  reserve,  the  darling  regiment,  the  flower  of  his 
army,  was  dressing  for  the  final  charge.  There  was 
Claude.  Next  him,  Sidonie !  —  and  £tienne,  and 
Madelaine,  Henri  and  Marcelline,  —  all  waiting  for 
the  word  —  the  words  —  of  eight  syllables!  Supreme 
moment!  Would  any  betray?  Banish  the  thought! 
AYould  any  fail? 

He  waited  an   instant  while  two  or  three  mothers 


130  BONAVENTURE. 

bore  out  great  armfuls  of  slumbering  or  fretting  in- 
fancy and  a  number  of  young  men  sank  down  into  the 
vacated  chairs.  Tiien  he  stepped  down  from  the  plat- 
form, drew  back  four  or  live  yards  from  the  class, 
opened  the  spelling-book,  scanned  the  first  word, 
closed  the  book  with  his  finger  at  the  place,  lifted  it 
high  above  his  head,  and  cried : 

"'Claude!  Claude,  my  brave  scholar,  always  per- 
fect, ah  you  ready?"  He  gave  the  little  book  a  half 
whirl  round,  and  dashed  forward  toward  the  chosen 
scholar,  crying  as  he  came  : 

"  In-e-rad-i-ca-bility !  " 

Claude's  face  suddenly  set  in  a  stony  vacancy, 
and  with  his  eyes  staring  straight  before  him  he 
responded : 

''I-n,  in-,  e,  inerad-,  r-a-d,  rad-,  inerad-,  ineraddy-, 
ineradica-,  c-a,  ca,  ineradica-,  ineradicabili-,  b-i-elly- 
billy,  ineradicabili-,  ineradicabili-,  t-y,  ty,  ineradica- 
bility." 

''  Ivight  I  Claude,  my  boy  !  my  always  good  scholar, 
right!"  The  master  drew  back  to  his  starting-place 
as  he  spoke,  re-opened  the  book,  shut  it  again,  lifted 
it  high  in  air,  cried,  '-Madelaine,  my  dear  chile, 
prepare!"  whirled  the  book  and  rushed  upon  her 
with  — 

' '  lu-de-f at-i-ga-bil-ly-ty  !  " 

Madelaine  turned  to  stone  and  began  : 

"  I-n,  een,  d-e,  de-,  inde-,  indefat-,  iudefat  —  fat  — 
f-a-t,  fat,  indefat,  indefatty,  i,  ty,  indefati-,  indefatiga-, 
g-a,  ga,  indefatiga-,  indefatigabilly,  b-i-elly,  billy,  in- 
de fatigabili-,  t-y,  ty,  indefatigability." 


LIGHT,   LOVE,   AND    VICTORY.  131 

*'0,  Madelaine,  m}-  chile,  j'oii  make  yo'  teacher 
proud!  prah-ood,  my  chile!"  Bonaventure's  hand 
rested  a  moment  tended}*  on  her  head  as  he  looked 
first  toward  the  audience  and  then  toward  the  stranger. 
Then  he  drew  off  for  the  third  word.  He  looked  at  it 
twice  before  he  called  it.     Then  — 

'' Sidonie !  ah!  Sidonie,  be  ready!  be  prepared! 
fail  not  yo'  humble  school-teacher  !  In-com  "  —  He 
looked  at  the  word  a  third  time,  and  then  swept  down 
upon  her  : 

''  In-com-pre-hen-si-ca-6?7% .' " 

Sidonie  flinched  not  nor  looked  upon  him,  as  he 
hung  over  her  with  the  spelling-book  at  arm's-reach 
above  them  ;  yet  the  pause  that  followed  seemed  to 
speak  dismay,  and  throughout  the  class  there  was  a 
silent  recoil  from  something  undiscovered  by  the  mas- 
ter. But  an  instant  later  Sidonie  had  chosen  between 
the  two  horns  of  her  agonizing  dilemma,  and  began : 

"  I-n,  een,  c-o-m,  cawm,  eencawm,  eencaw^mpre, 
p-r-e,  pre,  eencawmpre,  eeucawmprehen,  prehen,  haich- 
e-n,  hen,  hen,  eencawmprehensi,  s-i,  si,  eencawnipre- 
hensi-,  b-i-1  "  — 

^'Ah!  Sidonie!  Stop!  Arretez!  Si-do-nie-e-e-e  I 
Oh  !  listen  —  ecoutez  —  Sidonie,  my  dear  !  "  The  mas- 
ter threw  his  arms  up  and  down  in  distraction,  then 
suddenly  faced  his  visitor,  "Sir,  it  was  my  blame! 
I  spoke  the  word  without  adequate  distinction  !  Sidonie 
—  maintenant  —  now!"  But  a  voice  in  the  audience 
interrupted  with  — 

"  Assoiez-vous  la,  Chat-oue  !  Seet  down  yondeh  !  " 
And  at   the   potent  voice   of   Maximian   Roussel   the 


132  B  ON  A  VEN  T  URE. 

offender  was  pushed  silently  into  the  seat  he  had  risen 
from,  and  Bonaventiire  gave  the  word  again. 

"  In-com-pre-hen-si-ca-bil-i-ty  !  "  And  Sidonie, 
blushing  like  fire,  returned  to  the  task  : 

"  I-n,  cen  "  —     She  bit  her  lip  and  trembled. 

"Right!  Right!  Tremble  not,  my  Sidonie!  fear 
naught!  yo'  loving  school-teacher  is  at  thy  side!" 
But  she  trembled  like  a  red  leaf  as  she  spelled  on  — 
"  Haich-e-n,  hen,  eencawmprehen,  eencawmprehensi, 
s-i,  si,  eencawmprehensi-,  eencawmprehensi-billy-t-y, 
ty,  incomprehensibilit}' !  " 

The  master  dropped  his  hands  and  lifted  his  ej-es  in 
speechless  despair.  As  they  fell  again  upon  Sidonie, 
her  own  met  them.  She  moaned,  covered  her  face 
in  her  hands,  burst  into  tears,  ran  to  her  desk  and 
threw  her  hands  and  face  upon  it,  shaking  with  noise- 
less sobs  and  burning  red  to  the  nape  of  her  perfect 
neck.     All  Grande  Pointe  rose  to  its  feet. 

''  Lost !  "  cried  Bonaventure  in  a  heart-broken  voice. 
"  Every  thing  lost !  Farewell,  chil'run  !  '•  He  opened 
his  arms  toward  them  and  with  one  dash  all  the  lesser 
ones  filled  them.  They  wept.  Tears  welled  from 
Bonaventure's  eyes  ;  and  the  mothers  of  Grande  Pointe 
dropped  again  into  their  seats  and  silently  added 
theirs. 

The  next  moment  all  eyes  were  on  Maximian.  His 
strong  figure  was  mounted  on  a  chair,  and  he  was 
making  a  gentle,  commanding  gesture  with  one  hand 
as  he  called  : 

"  Seet  down!  Sect  down,  all  hau' !  "  And  all 
sank  down,  Bonaventure  in  a  mass  of   weeping  and 


LIGHT,    LOVE,   AND    VICTORY.  133 

clingiDg  children.  'Mian  too  resumed  his  seat,  at  the 
same  time  waving  to  the  stranger  to  speak. 

"  My  friends,"  said  the  visitor,  rising  with  alacrity, 
"  I  say  when  a  man  makes  a  bargain,  he  ought  to 
stick  to  it!"  He  paused  for  them  —  as  many  as 
could  —  to  take  in  the  meaning  of  his  English  speech, 
and,  it  may  be,  expecting  some  demonstration  of 
approval ;  but  dead  silence  reigned,  all  eyes  on  him 
save  Bonaventure's  and  Sidonie's.     He  began  again  : 

"  A  bargain's  a  bargain!"  And  Chat-oue  nodded 
approvingly  and  began  to  say  audibly,  '^  Yass  ;  "  but 
'Mian  thundered  out : 

"  Taise  toi,  Chat-oue  !  Shot  op  !  "  And  the  silence 
was  again  complete,  while  the  stranger  resumed. 

"There  was  a  plain  bargain  made."  He  moved 
a  step  forward  and  laid  the  matter  off  on  the  palm  of 
his  hand.  "There  was  to  be  an  examination;  the 
school  was  not  to  know ;  but  if  one  scholar  should 
make  one  mistake  the  schoolhouse  was  to  be  closed 
and  the  schoolmaster  sent  away.  Well,  there's  been 
a  mistake  made,  and  I  say  a  bargain's  a  bargain." 
Dead  silence  still.  The  speaker  looked  at  'Mian. 
"  Do  you  think  they  understand  me?  " 

"  Dey  meek  out,"  said  'Mian,  and  shut  his  firm 
jaws. 

"  My  friends,"  said  the  stranger  once  more,  "  some 
people  think  education's  a  big  thing,  and  some  think 
it  ain't.  Well,  sometimes  it  is  and  sometimes  it  ain't. 
Now,  here's  this  man" — he  pointed  down  to  where 
Bonaventure's  dishevelled  crown  was  drooping  to  his 
knees  —  "claims  to  have  taught  over  thirty  of   your 


134  BONAVENTURE. 

children  to  read.  Wc4l,  what  of  it?  A  man  can  know- 
how  to  read,  and  be  just  as  no  account  as  he  was 
before.  He  bras^s  that  he's  tau<2:ht  them  to  talk  Eno^- 
lish.  Well,  what  does  that  prove?  A  man  might 
speak  English  and  starve  to  death.  He  claims,  I  am 
told,  to  have  taught  some  of  them  to  write.  But  I 
know  a  man  in  the  penitentiary  that  can  write ;  he 
wrote  too  much." 

Honaventure  had  lifted  his  head  and  was  sitting 
with  his  eyes  upon  the  speaker  in  close  attention.  At 
this  last  word  he  said  : 

"Ah!  sir!  too  true,  too  true  ah  yo'  words;  never- 
theless, their  cooelty !  'Tis  not  what  is  print'  in  the 
books,  but  what  you  learn  through  the  books  I  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  so  you  hadn't  never  ought  to  have  made 
the  bargain  you  made  ;  but,  my  friends,  a  bargain's 
a  bargain,  and  the  teacher's" —  He  paused  invit- 
ingly, and  an  answer  came  from  the  audience.  It  was 
Catou  who  rose  and  said : 

'' Naw,  sah.  Naw ;  he  don't  got  to  go!"  But 
again  'Mian  thundered  : 

'^  Taise  toi,  Catou.     Shot  op  !  " 

"  I  say,"  continued  the  stranger,  ''  the  mistake's 
been  made.     Three  mistakes  have  been  made  !  " 

"  Yass !  "  roared  Chat-ou^,  leaping  to  his  feet  and 
turning  upon  the  assemblage  a  face  fierce  with  tri- 
umph. Suspense  and  suspicions  were  past  now ;  he 
was  to  see  his  desire  on  his  enenij^  But  instantly  a 
dozen  men  were  on  their  feet  —  St.  Pierre,  Catou, 
Bonaventure  himself,  with  a  countenance  full  of  plead- 
ing deprecation,  and  even  Claude,  flushed  with  auger. 


LIGHT,   LOVE,   AND   VICTORY.  135 

*'  Naw,  sah  !     Naw,  sah  !     Waim  meesteck?  '* 

*'Seet  down,  all  haii' !  "  yelled  'Mian;  "all  han' 
seet  dah-oon  !  "  Only  Chat-on6  took  his  seat,  glan- 
cing upon  the  rest  with  the  exultant  look  of  one  who 
can  afford  to  yield  ground. 

"  The  first  mistake,"  resumed  the  stranger,  address- 
ing himself  especially  to  the  risen  men  still  standing, 
and  pointedly  to  Catou,  "  the  first  mistake  was  in  the 
kind  of  bargain  you  made."  He  ceased,  and  passed 
his  eyes  around  from  one  to  another  until  they  rested 
an  instant  on  the  bewildered  countenance  of  Chat-oue. 
Then  he  turned  again  upon  the  people,  who  had  sat 
down,  and  began  to  speak  with  the  exultation  of  a 
man  that  feels  his  subject  lifting  him  above  himself. 

"  I  came  out  here  to  show  up  that  man  as  a  fraud. 
But  what  do  I  find?  A  poor,  unpaid,  half-starved 
man  that  loves  his  thankless  work  better  than  his  life, 
teaching  what  not  one  schoolmaster  in  a  thousand  can 
teach  ;  teaching  his  whole  school  four  better  things 
than  were  ever  printed  in  any  school-book,  —  how  to 
study,  how  to  think,  how  to  value  knowledge,  and 
to  love  one  another  and  mankind.  What  3'ou'd  ought 
to  have  done  was  to  agree  that  such  a  school  should 
keep  open,  and  such  a  teacher  should  stay,  if  jest  one, 
one  lone  child  should  answer  one  single  book-question 
right!  But  as  I  said  before,  a  bargain's  a  bargain  — 
Hold  on  there !  Sit  down !  You  sha'n't  interrupt 
me  again!"  Men  were  standing  up  on  every  side. 
There  was  confusion  and  a  loud  buzz  of  voices.  "  The 
second  mistake,"  the  stranger  made  haste  to  cry, 
"was  thinking  the  teacher  gave  out  that   last  w^ord 


136  BONAVENTURE. 

right.  He  gave  it  wrong !  And  the  third  mistake,'* 
he  shouted  against  the  rising  commotion,  "  was  think- 
ing it  was  spelt  wrong.  JShe  sj^elt  it  right!  And  a 
bargain's  a  bargain  !     The  schoohnaster  sta3'3  !  " 

lie  could  say  no  more  ;  the  rumble  of  voices  sud- 
denl}^  burst  into  a  cheer.  The  women  and  children 
laughed  and  clapped  their  hands,  —  Toutou  his  feet 
also, — and  Bonaventure,  flirting  the  leaves  of  a  spell- 
ing book  till  he  found  the  place,  looked,  cried  — 
*' In-com-pre-hen-s/6i7%/ "  wheeled  and  dashed  upon 
Sidonie,  seized  her  hands  in  his  as  she  turned  to  fly, 
and  gazed  speechlessly  upon  her,  with  the  tears  run- 
ning down  his  face.  Feeling  a  large  hand  upon  his 
shoulder,  he  glanced  around  and  saw  'Mian  pointing 
him  to  his  platform  and  desk.  Thither  he  went.  The 
stranger  had  parti}'  restored  order.  Every  one  was  in 
his  place.  But  what  a  change  !  What  a  gay  flutter 
throughout  the  old  shed !  Bonaventure  seemed  to 
have  bathed  in  the  fountain  of  3'outh.  Sidonie,  once 
more  the  school's  queen-flower,  sat  calm,  with  just 
a  trace  of  tears  adding  a  subtle  something  to  her 
beauty. 

"  Chil'run,  beloved  chil'run,"  said  Bonaventure, 
standing  once  more  by  his  desk,  "  yo'  schoolteacher 
has  the  blame  of  the  sole  mistake  ;  and,  sir,  gladly, 
oh,  gladly,  sir,  would  he  always  have  the  blame  rather 
than  any  of  his  beloved  school-chil'run  !  Sir,  I  will 
boldly  ask  you  —  aA  you  not  the  State  Sup'inten'ent 
Public  Education?" 

''No,  I"  — 

"But  surely,  sir,  than  a  greater?  —  Yes,  I  discover 


LIGHT,   LOVE,   AND    VICTORY.  137 

it,  though  you  smile.  Chil'run  —  friends  —  not  the 
State  Sup'iuten'ent,  but  greater! — Pardon;  have  yo' 
chair,  sir." 

*'Why,  the  examination's  over,  isn't  it?  Guess 
you'd  better  call  it  finished,  hadn't  j'ou?"  He  made 
the  suggestion  softly,  but  Bonaventure  answered 
aloud  : 

"Figu'atively  speaking,  'tis  conclude';  but  —  par- 
don—  you  mention'  writing.  Shall  you  paht  f'om  us 
not  known  —  not  leaving  yo'  name  —  in  a  copy-book, 
for  examp'  ?  " 

"  AVith  pleasure.     You  do  teach  writing?  " 

"If  I  teach  writing?  To  such  with  desks,  yes. 
'T would  be  to  all  but  for  the  privation  of  desks.  You 
perceive  how  we  have  here  nothing  less  than  a  desk 
famine.  ^Madelaine  !  Claude  !  Sidonie  !  —  present 
copy-book'  !  Sir,  do  you  not  think  every  chile  should 
be  provided  a  desk?  —  Ah  !  I  knew  'twould  be  yo'  ver- 
dic'.  But  how  great  trouble  I  have  with  that  subjec'  ! 
Me,  I  think  j^es ;  but  the  parents,"  —  he  looked  ten- 
derly over  among  them,  —  "  they  contend  no.  Now, 
sir,  here  are  three  copy-books.  Inspect ;  criticise. 
No,  commence  rather,  if  you  please,  with  the  copy- 
book of  Madelaine ;  then  proceed  to  the  copy-book  of 
Claude,  and  finally  conclude  at  the  copy-book  of  Sido- 
nie ;  thus  rising  by  degrees :  good,  more  good,  most 
good." 

"  How  about,"  asked  the  stranger,  with  a  smile,  as 
he  turned  the  leaves,  "  about  Toutou  and  Crebiche  ; 
don't  they  write?" 

*'Ah!  sir,"  said  Bonaventure,  half  to  the  stranger 


138  BONAVENTURE. 

and  half  to  the  assemblage,  "  they  write,  yes;  but  — 
they  ah  yet  in  the  pot-hook  and  chicken-track  stage. 
And  now,  chirrun,  in  honor  of  our  eminent  friend's 
visitation,  and  of  the  excellence  with  which  you  have 
been  examine',  I  p'onounce  the  exhibition  finish'  — 
dispensing  with  '  T wink',  twink'  lil  stah.'  And  now, 
in  the  book  of  the  best  writing  scholar  in  the  school  — 
you,  sir,  deciding  that  intricacy  —  shall  now  be  written 
the  name  of  the  eminent  frien'  of  learning  hereinbefo' 
confronting.  —  Claude  !  a  new  pen  !  " 

The  stranger  made  his  choice  among  the  books. 

"  Chil'run,  he  has  select'  the  book  of  Sidonie  !  " 
Bouaventure  reached  and  swung  a  chair  into  place  at 
his  desk.  The  visitor  sat  down.  Bouaventure  stood 
over  him,  gazing  down  at  the  hand  that  poised  the  pen. 
The  silence  was  profound. 

"  Chil'run  —  sh-sh-sh  !  "  said  the  master,  lifting  his 
left  arm  but  not  his  eyes.  The  stranger  wrote  a  single 
initial. 

"G!  chil'run ;  G!  —  Sir,  does  it  not  signify 
George  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  murmured  the  writer;  "it  stands  for 
George."     He  wrote  another. 

"W!  my  chil'run;  George  W!  — Sir,  does  it  not 
sig  —  My  chil'run !  George  Washington !  George 
Washington,  my  chil'run!  George  Washington,  the 
father  of  his  country !  My  chil'run  and  fellow-citizen' 
of  Gran'  Point',  he  is  nominated  for  George  Washing- 
ton, the  father  of  his  country  !  Sir,  ah  you  not  a 
relation  ? ' ' 

"I  really  can't  tell  you,"  said  the  writer,  with  a 


LIGHT,   LOVE,   AND    VICTORY.  139 

calm  smile.  "  I've  alwa3^s  been  too  busy  to  look  it 
up."  He  finished  his  signature  as  he  talked.  Bona- 
venture  bent  over  it. 

"Tar-box.  Chil'mn  and  friends  and  fellow-citizen', 
1  have  the  p'oudness  to  int'oduce  you  the  hono'able 
George  Washington  Tarbox  !  And  now  the  exhibi- 
tion is  dismiss';  but  stop!  Sir,  if  some  —  aw  all  — 
desire  gratefully  to  shake  hand'  ?  " 

"  I  should  feel  honored." 

"Attention,  everybody!  Make  rank!  Everybody 
by  two  by  two,  the  school-chil'run  coming  last,  — 
Claude  and  Sidonie  resting  till  the  end,  —  pass  'round 
—  shake  hand'  — walk  out —  similah  a  fu-nial." 

So  came,  shook  hands,  and  passed  out  and  to  their 
simple  homes,  the  manliood,  motherhood,  maidenhood, 
childhood  of  Grande  Pointe,  not  knowing  that  before 
many  days  ever}'  household  in  the  village  was  to  be  a 
subscriber  to  the  "  Album  of  Universal  Information." 

One  of  the  last  of  the  householders  was  Chat-oue. 
But  when  he  grasped  the  honored  hand,  he  also  held 
it,  fixing  upon  its  owner  a  generous  and  somewhat 
bacchanalian  smile. 

"  I'm  a  fool,  but  /  know.  You  been  put  op  a  jawb 
on  me.  Dass  four,  five  da3's  now  I  been  trj'  to  meek 
out  what  dat  niggah  at  Belle  Alliance  holla  to  me  when 
I  gallop  down  de  road."  (Chat-oue's  English  had  been 
acquired  from  negroes  in  the  sugar-house,  and  was  like 
theirs.)  "He  been  braggin'  dat  day  befo' "  —  turn- 
ing to  Bonaventure —  "how  'twas  him  show  you  de 
road  to  Gran'  Point'  las'  year ;  and  so  I  git  mad  and 
tell  him,  me,"  addressing  the  stranger  again,  "  how 


140  BONAVENTURE, 

we  goin'  git  school  shot  op.  Well,  dat  night  I  mit 
him  comia'  fiim  Graii'  Point'  and  he  hoi'  at  me.  I 
been  try  evva  since  meek  out  what  he  say.  Yass. 
An'  I  jis  meek  it  out !  He  say,  '  Watch  out,  watch 
out,  'Mian  Roussel  and  dat  book-fellah  dawn't  put  op 
jawbon?/oi«.'  Well,  I'm  a  fool,  but  I  know.  You  put 
op  jawb  on  me;  I  know.  But  dass  all  right  —  I  don't 
take  no  hook.'''  He  laughed  with  the  rest,  scratched 
his  tipsy  head,  and  backed  out  through  the  ijieux. 

Only  a  fairy  number  remained,  grouped  around 
the  honorable  Tarbox.  They  were  St.  Pierre,  Bona- 
venture,  —  Maximian  detaining  a  middle-aged  pair, 
Sidonie's  timorous  guardians,  —  and  two  others,  who 
held  back,  still  waiting  to  shake  hands. 

"  Claude,"  cried  Bonaventure  ;  "  Sidonie." 

They  came.  Claude  shook  hands  and  stepped  inside. 
Sidonie,  with  eyes  on  the  ground,  put  forth  her  hand. 
The  honored  guest  held  it  lingeringly,  and  the  cere- 
monies were  at  an  end. 

*'  Come,"  said  'Mian,  beckoning  away  the  great  G. 
W.'s  probable  relative.  They  passed  out  together. 
*'Come!"  he  repeated,  looking' back  and  beckoning 
again  ;  "  walk  een  !  all  han'  !  walk  een  house  !  " 

The  guardian  pair  followed,  hand  in  hand. 

*'  Claude,"  said  Bonaventure  tenderly  ;  but  — 

*'  Claude,"  more  firmly  said  St.  Pierre. 

The  boy  looked  for  one  instant  from  the  master's 
face  to  Sidonie's ;  then  turned,  grasped  his  father's 
hand,  and  followed  the  others. 

A  blaze  of  light  filled  Bonaventure's  heart.  He 
turned  to  Sidonie  to  give  his  hand  —  both  her  hands 


LIGHT,    LOVE,   AND    VICTORY.  141 

were  clasped  upon  each  other,  and  they  only  tightened. 
But  their  eyes  met  —  ah  !  those  Acadian  maidens,  they 
do  it  all  with  their  eyes !  —  and  lover  and  maiden 
passed  out  and  walked  forth  side  by  side.  They  are 
going  that  way  still,  only  —  with  hands  joined. 


AU    LARGE. 


CHAPTER   I. 


THE    POT-HUNTER. 


The  sun  was  just  rising,  as  a  man  stepped  from  his 
slender  dug-out  and  drew  half  its  length  out  upon  the 
ooz}"  bank  of  a  prettj'  bayou.  Before  him,  as  he 
turned  away  from  the  water,  a  small  gray  railway- 
platform  and  frame  station-house,  drowsing  on  long 
legs  in  the  mud  and  water,  were  still  veiled  in  the 
translucent  shade  of  the  deep  cypress  swamp,  wliose 
long  moss  drapings  almost  overhung  them  on  the  side 
next  the  brightening  dawn.  The  solemn  gray  festoons 
did  overhang  the  farthest  two  or  three  of  a  few  fliuisy 
wooden  houses  and  a  saw-mill  with  its  lumber,  logs, 
and  sawdust,  its  cold  furnace  and  idle  engine. 

As  with  gun  and  game  this  man  mounted  !)y  a  short, 
rude  ladder  to  firmer  footing  on  the  platform,  a  negro, 
who  sat  fishing  for  his  breakfast  on  the  bank  a  few 
yards  up  the  stream,  where  it  bent  from  the  north  and 
west,  slovvlj'  lifted  liis  eyes,  noted  that  the  other  was 
a  white  man,  an  Acadian,  and  brought  his  gaze  back 
again  to  hook  and  line. 

He  had  made  out  these  facts  by  the  man's  shape 
142 


THE  POT-HUNTER.  143 

and  dress,  for  the  face  was  in  shade.  The  day,  I 
say,  was  still  in  its  genesis.  The  waters  that  slid  so 
languidly  between  the  two  silent  men  as  not  to  crook 
one  line  of  the  station-house's  image  inverted  in  their 
clear  dark  depths,  had  not  yet  caught  a  beam  upon 
their  whitest  water-lily,  nor  yet  upon  their  tallest  bul- 
rush ;  but  the  tops  of  the  giant  cypresses  were  green 
and  luminous,  and  as  the  Acadian  glanced  abroad 
westward,  in  the  open  sk}'  far  out  over  the  vast  marshy 
breadths  of  the  "shaking  prairie,"  ^  two  still  clouds, 
whose  under  surfaces  were  yet  dusk}-  and  pink,  spar- 
kled on  their  sunward  edges  like  a  frosted  fleece.  You 
could  not  have  told  whether  the  Acadian  saw  the  black 
man  or  not.  His  dog,  soiled  and  wet,  stood  beside 
his  knee,  pricked  his  ears  for  a  moment  at  sight  of  the 
negro,  and  then  dropped  them. 

It  was  September.  The  comfortable  air  could  only 
near  by  be  seen  to  stir  the  tops  of  the  high  reeds  whose 
crowding  myriads  stretched  away  south,  west,  and 
north,  an  open  sea  of  green,  its  immense  distances 
relieved  here  and  there  by  strips  of  swamp  forest 
tinged  with  their  peculiar  purple  haze.  P]ast\yard  the 
railroad's  long  causeway  and  telegraph-poles  narrowed 
on  the  view  through  its  wide  axe-hewn  lane  in  the  over- 
towering  swamp.  New  Orleans,  sixty  miles  or  more 
away,  was  in  that  direction.  Westward,  rails,  cause- 
way, and  telegraph,  tapered  away  again  across  the 
illimitable    hidden    quicksands    of     the     "  trembling 


*  The  "shaking  prairie,"  "trembling  prairie,"  or  prairie  iremhlante, 
is  low,  level,  treeless  delta  land,  having  a  top  soil  of  vegetable  mould  over- 
lying immense  beds  of  quicksand. 


144  BONAVENTURE. 

prairie"  till  the  green  disguise  of  reeds  and  rushes 
closed  in  upon  the  attenuated  line,  and  only  a  small 
notch  in  a  far  strip  of  woods  showed  where  it  still  led 
on  toward  Texas.  Behind  the  Acadian  the  smoke 
of  woman's  early  industr}^  began  to  curl  from  two  or 
three  low  chimne3's. 

But  his  eye  lingered  in  the  north.  He  stood  with 
his  dog  curled  at  his  feet  beside  a  bunch  of  egrets, — 
killed  for  their  plumage,  — the  butt  of  his  long  fowling- 
piece  resting  on  tlie  platform,  and  the  arm  half  out- 
stretched whose  hand  grasped  the  barrels  near  the 
muzzle.  The  hand,  toil-hardened  and  weather-browned, 
showed,  withal,  antiquity  of  race.  His  feet  were  in 
rough  muddy  brogans,  but  even  so  they  were  smallish 
and  shapely.  His  garments  were  coarse,  but  there 
■were  no  tatters  anywhere.  He  wore  a  wide  Cam- 
peachy  hat.  His  brown  hair  was  too  long,  but  it  was 
fine.  His  ej^es,  too,  were  brown,  and,  between  brief 
moments  of  alertness,  sedate.  Sun  and  wind  had 
darkened  his  face,  and  his  pale  brown  beard  curled 
meagre  and  untrimmed  on  a  cheek  and  chin  that  in 
forty  3'ears  had  never  felt  a  razor. 

Some  miles  away  in  the  direction  in  which  he  was 
looking,  the  broadening  sunlight  had  struck  and  bright- 
ened the  single  red  lug-sail  of  a  boat  whose  unseen 
hull,  for  all  the  eye  could  see,  was  coming  across 
the  green  land  on  a  dry  keel.  But  the  bayou,  hidden 
in  the  tall  rushes,  was  its  highwa}" ;  for  suddenly  the 
canvas  was  black  as  it  turned  its  shady  side,  and  soon 
was  red  again  as  another  change  of  direction  caught 
the  sunbeams  upon  its  tense  width  and  showed  that, 


THE  POT-HUNTER.  145 

with  much  more  wind  out  there  than  it  would  find  by 
and  by  in  here  under  the  lee  of  the  swamp,  it  was  fol- 
lowing the  unseen  meanderings  of  the  stream.  Pres- 
ently it  reached  a  more  open  space  where  a  stretch  of 
the  water  lay  shining  in  the  distant  view.  Here  the 
boat  itself  came  into  sight,  showed  its  bunch  of  some 
half-dozen  passengers  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  van- 
ished again,  leaving  only  its  slanting  red  sail  skimming 
nautilus-like  over  the  vast  breezy  expanse. 

Yet  more  than  two  hours  later  the  boat's  one  blue- 
shirted,  barefoot  Sicilian  sailor  in  red  worsted  cap  had 
with  one  oar  at  the  stern  just  turned  her  drifting  form 
into  the  glassy  calm  by  the  railway-station,  tossed  her 
anchor  ashore,  and  was  still  busy  with  small  matters 
of  boat-keeping,  while  his  five  passengers  clambered  to 
the  platform. 

The  place  showed  somewhat  more  movement  now. 
The  negro  had  long  ago  wound  his  line  upon  its  crooked 
pole,  gathered  up  his  stiffened  fishes  from  the  bank, 
thrust  them  into  the  pockets  of  his  shamelessl}^  ragged 
trousers,  and  was  gone  to  his  hut  in  the  underbrush. 
But  the  few  amphibious  households  round  about  were 
passing  out  and  in  at  the  half -idle  tasks  of  their  slow 
daily  life,  and  a  young  white  man  was  bustling  around, 
now  into  the  station  and  now  out  again  upon  the  plat- 
form, with  authority  in  his  frown  and  a  pencil  and  two 
matches  behind  his  ear.  It  was  Monday.  Two  or 
three  shabby  negroes  with  broad,  collapsed,  glazed 
leather  travelling-bags  of  the  old  carpet-sack  pattern 
dragged  their  formless  feet  about,  waiting  to  take  the 
train  for  the  next  station  to  hire  out  there  as  rice  har- 


146  BONAVENTURE. 

vesters,  and  one,  with  his  back  turned,  leaned  motion- 
less against  an  open  window  gazing  in  upon  the  ticking 
telegraph  instruments.  A  black  woman  in  blue  cotton 
gown,  red-and-yellow  Madras  turban,  and  some  sports- 
man's cast-off  hunting-shoes  minus  the  shoe-strings, 
crouched  against  the  wall.  Beside  her  stood  her 
shapely  mulatto  daughter,  with  head-covering  of  white 
cotton  cloth,  in  which  female  instinct  had  discovered 
the  lines  of  grace  and  disposed  them  after  the  folds  of 
the  Egyptian  fellah  head-dress.  A  portly  white  man, 
with  decided  polish  in  his  commanding  air,  evidently  a 
sugar- planter  from  the  Mississippi  "  coast"  ten  miles 
northward,  moved  about  in  spurred  boots,  and  put 
personal  questions  to  the  negroes,  calling  them  "boys,'* 
and  the  mulattress,  "  girl." 

The  pot-hunter  was  still  among  them  ;  or  rather, 
he  had  drawn  apart  from  the  rest,  and  stood  at  the 
platform's  far  end,  leaning  on  his  gun,  an  innocent, 
wikl-animal  look  in  his  restless  eyes,  and  a  slumberous 
agility  revealed  in  his  strong,  supple  loins.  The 
station-agent  went  to  him,  and  with  abrupt  questions 
and  assertions,  to  which  the  man  replied  in  low,  grave 
monosyllables,  bought  his  game,  —  as  he  might  have 
done  two  hours  before,  but  —  an  Acadian  can  wait. 
There  was  some  trouble  to  make  exact  change,  and  the 
agent,  saying  "Hold  on,  I'll  fix  it,"  went  into  the 
station  just  as  the  group  from  the  Sicilian's  boat 
reached  the  platform.  The  agent  came  bustling  out 
again  with  his  eyes  on  his  palm,  counting  small  silver. 

"Here!"  But  he  spoke  to  the  empt}'  air.  He 
glanced  about  with  an  offended  frown. 


CLAUDE.  147 

*'Acliille!"  There  was  no  repl}^  lie  turned  to 
one  of  the  negroes:  "Where's  that  'Cajan?"  No- 
body knew.  Down  where  his  canoe  had  lain,  tiny  rillets 
of  mudd}"  water  were  still  running  into  its  imprint  left 
in  the  mire  ;  but  canoe,  dog,  and  man  had  vanished 
into  the  rank  undergrowth  of  the  swamp. 


CHAPTER    II. 

CLAUDE. 

Of  the  party  that  had  come  in  the  Sicilian's  boat 
four  were  men  and  one  a  young  woman.  She  was 
pretty ;  so  pretty,  and  of  such  restful  sweetness  of 
countenance,  that  the  homespun  garb,  the  brand-new 
creaking  gaiters,  and  a  hat  that  I  dare  not  describe 
were  nothing  against  her.  Her  large,  soft,  dark  eyes, 
more  sweetly  but  not  less  plainly  than  the  attire,  con- 
fessed her  a  denizen  of  the  woods. 

Not  so  the  man  who  seemed  to  be  her  husband. 
His  dress  was  rustic  enough  ;  and  yet  you  would  have 
seen  at  once  that  it  was  not  the  outward  circumstance, 
but  an  inward  singularity,  that  had  made  him  and 
must  always  keep  him  a  stranger  to  the  ordinary  ways 
of  men.  There  was  an  emotional  exaltation  in  his  face 
as  he  hastily  led  his  companions  with  military  direct- 
ness to  the  ticket  window.  Two  others  of  the  men 
were  evidently  father  and  son,  the  son  barely  twenty 
years  of  age,  the  parent  certainly  not  twice  as  old; 


148  BONAVENTURE. 

and  the  last  of  the  group  was  a  strong,  sluggish  man 
of  j'ears  somewhat  near,  but  under,  Miy. 

They  bought  but  one  ticket ;  but,  as  one  may  say, 
they  all  bought  it,  the  youngest  extricating  its  price 
with  difficulty  from  the  knotted  corner  of  his  red  hand- 
kerchief, and  the  long,  thin  hand  of  the  leader  making 
the  purchase,  while  the  e3'es  of  the  others  followed 
every  movement  with  uuconscious  absorption. 

The  same  unemotional  attentiveness  was  in  their 
forms  as  their  slow  feet  drifted  here  and  there  always 
after  the  one  leader,  their  eyes  on  his  demonstrative 
hands,  and  their  ears  drinking  in  his  discourse.  He 
showed  them  the  rails  of  the  track,  how  smooth  they 
were,  how  they  rested  on  their  cross-ties,  and  how  they 
were  spiked  in  place  always  the  same  width  apart. 
They  crowded  close  about  him  at  the  telegraph-window 
while  he  interpreted  with  unconscious  originality  the 
wonders  of  electricity.  Their  eyes  rose  slowly  from 
the  window  up  and  out  along  the  ascending  wires  to 
where  they  mounted  the  poles  and  eastward  and  west- 
ward leaped  away  sinking  and  rising  from  insulator  to 
insulator.  One  of  the  party  pointed  at  these  green 
dots  of  glass  and  murmured  a  question,  and  the  lead- 
er's wife  laid  her  small  hand  softly  upon  his  arm  to 
check  the  energ}^  of  his  utterance  as  he  said,  audibly 
to  all  on  the  platform,  and  with  a  strong  French 
accent : 

"They? — are  there  lest  the  heat  of  the  telegraph 
fluid  inflame  the  post-es  !  "  He  laid  his  own  hand  ten- 
derl}'  upon  his  wife's  in  response  to  its  warning  press- 
ure, yet  turned  to  the  sugar-planter  and  asked  : 


CLA  UDE.  149 

"  Sir,  pardon  ;  do  I  not  explain  trul}'?  " 

The  planter,  with  restrained  smile,  was  about  to 
reply,  when  some  one  called,  "There  she  comes!" 
and  every  e^^e  was  turned  to  the  east. 

"Truly!"  exclaimed  the  inquirer,  in  a  voice  made 
rich  with  emotion.  "Truly,  she  comes!  She  comes! 
The  iron  horse,  though  they  call  him  'she'!"  He 
turned  to  the  planter — "Ah!  sir,  why  saj' they  thus 
many  or  thus  many  horse-power,  when  truly"  —  his 
finger-tip  pattered  upon  his  temple  —  "  truly  it  is  mind- 
power  !  ' ' 

The  planter,  smiling  decorously,  turned  away,  and 
the  speaker  looked  again  down  the  long  vacant  track 
to  where  the  small  dark  focus  of  every  one's  attention 
was  growing  on  the  sight.  He  spoke  again,  in  lower 
voice  but  with  larger  emotion. 

"  Mind-power  !  thought-power  !  knowledge-power ! 
learning  and  thinking  power!  "  He  caught  his  wife's 
arm.  "See!  see,  Sidonie,  my  dear!  See  her  en- 
hancing in  magnitude  so  fasti}'  approaching !  "  As  he 
spoke  a  puff  of  white  vapor  lifted  from  the  object  and 
spread  out  against  the  blue,  the  sunbeams  turned  it  to 
silver  and  pearl,  and  a  moment  later  came  the  far- 
away-, long,  wild  scream  of  the  locomotive. 

"Retire!"  exclaimed  the  husband,  drawing  back 
all  bis  gazing  companions  at  once.  "Retire!  retire! 
the  whisttel  is  to  signify  warning  to  retire  from  too 
close  the  edge  of  the  galerie !  There !  rest  at  this 
point.  'Tis  far  enough.  Now,  each  and  all  resolve 
to  stand  and  shrink  not  whilst  that  iron  mare,  eating 
coal,  drinking  hot  water,  and  spitting  fire,  shall  seem, 


150  B  ON  A  VEN  T  UBE. 

but  falsely,  threatening  to  come  ou  the  platform.  Ah  ! 
Claude  !  "  he  cried  to  the  youngest  of  the  group,  "  now 
shall  you  behold  what  I  have  told  you  —  that  vast 
am-azemeut  of  civilize-ation  anui-Zi/f/Zi-lating  space  and 
also  time  at  the  tune  of  twenty  miles  the  hour !  "  He 
wheeled  upon  the  planter —  "  Sir,  do  I  exaggerate?  " 

"Forty  miles,"  replied  the  planter;  "sometimes 
fifty." 

"Friends,  —  confirmated  !  more  than  twicefold  con- 
firraated.  Forty,  sometimes  fifty  !  Thou  heardest  it, 
Maximian  Roussel !  Not  from  me,  but  from  the  gen- 
tleman himself !  Forty,  sometimes  fifty  !  Such  the 
march,  the  forward  march  of  civilize-ation!" 

His  words  were  cut  short  by  the  unearthl}^  neigh  of 
the  engine.  Sidonie  smote  herself  backward  against 
her  husband. 

"Nay,  Sidonie,  fear  thou  nothing!  Remember, 
dear  Sidonie,  thy  promise  of  self-control !  Stand 
boldly  still,  St.  Pierre;  both  father  and  sou,  stand." 
The  speaker  was  unheard.  Hissing,  clanging,  thun- 
dering, and  shaking  the  earth,  the  engine  and  train 
loomed  up  to  the  platform  and  stopped. 

"  Come  !  "  cried  Bonaventure  Deschamps  ;  "  lose  no 
moment,  dear  friends.  Tide  and  time  —  even  less  the 
railroad  —  wait  for  nobody.  Claude,  remember;  give 
your  ticket  of  passage  to  none  save  the  conductor  only. 
'Tis  print'  in  letter'  of  gold  on  front  his  cap  —  'Con- 
ductor'—  Stop!  he  is  here.  —  Sir,  this  3'ouug  man, 
inexperienced,  is  taking  passage  for  "  — 

"  Shoot  him  aboard,"  replied  a  uniformed  man,  and 
walked  on  without   a  pause.     Claude   moved   toward 


CLAUDE.  151 

the  train.  Bonaventure  seized  him  by  both  arms  and 
gazed  on  him. 

"  Claude  St.  Pierre !  Claude,  my  boy,  pride  of 
Grande  Poiute,  second  only  with  Sidonie,  farewell !  " 

Tears  leaped  into  the  eyes  of  both.  Bonaventure 
snatched  Claude  to  his  arms  and  kissed  him.  It  was 
less  than  nothing  to  him  that  every  eye  on  and  off  the 
train  was  on  them.  He  relaxed  his  grasp.  "  Sidonie  ! 
tell  him  farewell !  —  ah  !  nay  !  shake  not  hands  only  ! 
Kiss  her,  Claude  !  Kiss  him,  my  own  Sidonie,  kiss 
him  farewell !  " 

It  was  done.  Claude  blushed  red,  and  Sidonie 
stepped  back,  wiping  her  eyes.  Maximian  moved  into 
the  void,  and  smiling  gave  his  hand  to  the  young 
adventurer. 

"Adjieu,  Claude.'*  He  waved  a  hand  awkwardly. 
*'Teck  care  you'seff,"  and  dropped  the  hand  audibly 
against  his  thigh. 

Claude's  eye  sought  his  father.  St.  Pierre  pressed 
forward,  laid  his  right  hand  upon  his  son's  shoulder, 
and  gazed  into  his  face.  His  voice  was  low  and 
husky.     He  smiled. 

"Claude,"  —  tears  rose  in  his  eyes,  but  he  swal- 
lowed them  down,  —  '^  Claude,  —  my  baby,"  —  and 
the  flood  came.  The  engine-bell  rang.  The  conduc- 
tor gave  the  warning  word,  the  youth  leaped  upon  his 
father's  neck.  St.  Pierre  thrust  him  off,  caught  his 
two  cheeks  between  fluttering  palms  and  kissed  him 
violentl}' ;  the  train  moved,  the  young  man  leaped 
aboard,  the  blue  uniforms  disappeared,  save  one  on 
the  rear  platform,  the  bell  ceased,  the   gliding   mass 


152  BONAVENTURE. 

shrunk  and  dwindled  away,  the  rails  clicked  more  and 
more  softly,  the  tearful  group  drew  closer  together  as 
they  gazed  after  the  now-unheard  train.  It  melted  to 
a  point  and  disappeared,  the  stillness  of  forest  and 
prairie  fell  again  upon  the  place,  the  soaring  sun 
shone  down,  and  Claude  St.  Pierre  was  gone  to  seek 
his  fortune. 


CHAPTER   U 


THE    TAVERN    FIRESIDE. 


I  CALL  to  mind  a  certain  wild,  dark  night  in  Novem- 
ber. St.  Pierre  lay  under  his  palmetto  thatch  in  the 
forest  behind  Grande  Pointe,  and  could  not  sleep  for 
listening  to  the  wind,  and  wondering  where  his  son  was, 
in  that  wnld  Texas  norther.  On  the  Mississippi  a 
steamer,  upward  bound,  that  had  whistled  to  land  at 
Belmont  or  Belle  Alliance  plantation,  seemed  to  be 
staying  there  afraid  to  venture  awa}'.  Miles  south- 
ward beyond  the  river  and  the  lands  on  that  side. 
Lake  des  Allemands  was  combing  with  the  tempest 
and  hissing  with  the  rain.  Still  farther  away,  on  the 
little  bayou  and  at  the  railway-station  in  the  edge  of 
the  swamp  that  we  already  know,  and  westward  over 
the  prairie  where  Claude  had  vanished  into  the  world, 
all  life  was  hidden  and  mute.  And  farther  still,  leagues 
and  leagues  away,  the  mad  tempest  was  riding  the  white- 
caps  in  Berwick's  Bay  and  Grande  Lake ;  and  yet  be- 
3'ond,  beyond  New  Iberia,  and  up  by  Carancro,  and 


THE   TAYEIiN  FIRESIDE.  153 

around  again  by  St.  Martinville,  Breaux  Bridge,  Grand 
Coteau,  and  Opelousas,  and  down  once  more  across 
the  prairies  of  Vermilion,  the  marshes  about  Cote 
Blanche  Bay,  and  the  islands  in  the  Gulf,  it  came 
bounding,  screaming,  and  buffeting.  And  all  the  way 
across  that  open  sweep  from  Mermentau  to  Cote  Gelee 
it  was  tearing  the  rain  to  mist  and  freezing  it  wherever 
it  fell,  only  lulhng  and  warming  a  little  about  Joseph 
Jefferson's  Island,  as  if  that  prank  were  too  mean  a 
trick  to  play  upon  his  orange-groves. 

In  Vermilionville  the  wind  came  around  every  corner 
piercing  and  pinching  to  the  bone.  The  walking  was 
slippery  ;  and  though  it  was  still  early  bedtime  and 
the  ruddy  lamp-light  filled  the  wet  panes  of  some 
window  every  here  and  there,  scarce  a  soul  was  stirring 
without,  on  horse  or  afoot,  to  be  guided  by  its  kindly 
glow. 

At  the  corner  of  two  streets  quite  away  from  the 
court-house  square,  a  white  frame  tavern,  with  a  wooden 
Greek  porch  filling  its  whole  two-story  front  and  a 
balcony  built  within  the  porch  at  the  second-story 
windows  m  oddest  fashion,  w\as  glowing  with  hospita- 
ble firelight.  It  was  not  nearly  the  largest  inn  of  the 
place,  nor  the  oldest,  nor  the  newest,  nor  the  most 
accessible.  There  was  no  clink  of  glass  there.  Yet 
in  this,  only  third  year  of  its  present  management,  it 
Tvas  the  place  w^here  those  who  knew  best  always  put 
up. 

Around  the  waiting-room  fire  this  evening  sat  a 
goodly  semicircle  of  men,  —  commercial  travellers. 
Some  of  them  were  quite  dry  and  comfortable,  and 


154  B  ox  A  VEX  T  UR  E. 

wore  an  air  of  superior  fortune  over  others  whose 
shoes  and  lower  garments  sent  out  more  or  less  steam 
and  odor  toward  the  open  fireplace.  Several  were 
smoking.  One  who  neither  smoked  nor  steamed  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  the  skirts  of  his  coat  lifted 
forward  on  his  wrists.  He  was  a  rather  short,  slight, 
nervy  man,  about  thirty  years  of  age,  with  a  wide  pink 
baldness  running  so  far  back  from  his  prominent  temples 
and  forehead  that  when  he  tipped  his  face  toward  the 
blue  joists  overhead,  enjoying  the  fatigue  of  a  well- 
filled  day,  his  polished  skull  sent  back  the  firelight 
brilliantly.  There  was  a  light  skirmish  of  conversa- 
tion going  on,  in  which  he  took  no  part.  No  one 
seemed  really  acquainted  with  another.  Presently  a 
man  sitting  next  on  the  left  of  him  put  awaj'  a  quill 
toothpick  in  his  watch-pocket,  looked  up  into  the  face 
of  the  standing  man,  and  said,  with  a  faint  smile : 

"  That  job's  done  !  " 

With  friendly  gravity  the  other  looked  down  and 
replied,  "  I  never  use  a  quill  toothpick." 

"Yes,"  said  the  one  who  sat,  "it's  bad.  Still  I 
doit." 

"Nothing,"  continued  the  other,  —  "nothing  harder 
than  a  sharpened  white-pine  match  should  ever  go 
between  the  teeth.  Brush  thoroughly  but  not  violently 
once  or  twice  daily  with  a  moderately  stiff  brush  dipped 
in  soft  water  into  which  has  been  dropped  a  few  drops 
of  the  tincture  of  myrrh.  A  brush  of  badger's  hair  is 
best.  If  tartar  accumulates,  have  it  removed  by  a 
dentist.  Do  not  bite  thread  or  crack  nuts  with  the 
teeth,  or  use  the  teeth  for  other  purposes  than  those 


THE   TAVERN  FIB E SIDE.  155 

for  which  nature  designed  them.'*  He  bent  toward 
his  hearer  with  a  smile  of  irresistible  sweetness,  drew 
his  lips  awa}^  from  his  gums,  snapped  his  teeth  together 
loudly  twice  or  thrice,  and  smiled  again,  modestly.  The 
other  man  sought  defence  in  buoyancy  of  manner. 

"  Right  you  are  !  "  he  chirruped.  He  reached  up  to 
his  adviser's  blue  and  crimson  neck-scarf,  and  laid  his 
finger  and  thumb  upon  a  large,  solitary  pear-shaped 
pearl.  "You're  like  me;  you  believe  in  the  real 
thing." 

"  I  do,"  said  the  pearl's  owner ;  "  and  I  like  people 
that  like  the  real  thing.  A  pearl  of  the  first  water  is 
real.  There's  no  sham  there;  no  deception — except 
the  iridescence,  which  is,  as  you  doubtless  know,  an 
optical  illusion  attributable  to  the  intervention  of  rays 
of  light  reflected  from  microscopic  corrugations  of  the 
nacrous  surface.  But  for  that  our  eye  is  to  blame, 
not  the  pearl.     See?  " 

The  seated  man  did  not  reply ;  but  another  man  on 
the  speaker's  right,  a  large  man,  widest  at  the  waist, 
leaned  across  the  arm  of  his  chair  to  scrutinize  the 
jewel.  Its  owner  turned  his  throat  for  the  inspection, 
despite  a  certain  grumness  and  crocodilian  aggressive- 
ness in  the  man's  interest. 

"  I  like  a  diamond,  myself,"  said  the  new  on-looker, 
dropped  back  in  his  chair,  and  met  the  eyes  of  the 
pearl's  owner  with  a  heavy  glance. 

"Tastes  differ,"  kindly  responded  the  wearer  of  the 
pearl.  "Are  you  acquainted  with  the  language  of 
gems?  " 

The  big-waisted  man  gave  a  negative  grunt,  and  spat 


156  BONAVENTURE. 

bravely  into  the  fire.  "  Didn't  know  gems  could 
talk,"  he  said. 

"They  do  not  talk,  they  speak,"  responded  their 
serene  interpreter.  The  company  in  general  noticed 
that,  with  all  his  amiability  of  tone  and  manner,  his 
mild  eyes  held  the  big-waisted  man  with  an  uncomfort- 
able steadiness.  "They  speak  not  to  the  ear,  but  to 
the  eye  and  to  the  thought ; 

'Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech; 
Feehng  deeper  than  all  thought  j 
Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 
What  unto  themselves  was  taught.'  " 

The  speaker's  victim  writhed,  but  the  riveted  gaze 
and  an  uplifted  finger  pinioned  him.  "You  should 
know  —  every  one  should  know  —  the  language  of 
gems.     There  is  a  language  of  flowers  : 

*  To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears.' 

But  the  language  of  gems  is  as  much  more  important 
than  that  of  flowers  as  the  imperishable  gem  is  itself 
more  enduring  than  the  withering,  the  evanescent 
blossom.  A  gentleman  ma}'  not  with  safety  present  to 
a  lady  a  gem  of  whose  accompanying  sentiment  he  is 
ignorant.  But  with  the  language  of  gems  understood 
between  them,  how  could  a  sentiment  be  more  ex- 
quisitely or  more  acceptably  expressed  than  by  the  gift 
of  a  costly  gem  uttering  that  sentiment  with  an  un- 
spoken eloquence !  Did  you  but  know  the  language 
of  gems,  your  choice  would  not  be  the  diamond. 
'  Diamond  me  no  diamonds,'  emblems  of  pride  — 


THE   TAVERN  FIRESIDE.  157 

*  Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  liumankind  pass  by.' 

"  Your  choice  would  have  been  the  pearl,  symbol  of 
modest  loveliness. 

*  Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  oqean  bear;' 

*  Orient  pearls  at  random  strung;' 

*  Fold,  little  trembler,  thy  fluttering  wing. 
Freely  partake  of  love's  fathomless  spring  ; 
So  hallowed  thy  presence,  the  spirit  within 

Hath  whispered,  "  The  angels  protect  thee  from  sin."  '  " 

The  speaker  ceased,  with  his  glance  hovering  caress- 
ingly over  the  little  trembler  with  fluttering  wing,  that 
is,  the  big-waisted  man.  The  company  sat  in  listening 
expectancy ;  and  the  big-waisted  man,  whose  eyes  had 
long  ago  sought  refuge  in  the  fire,  lifted  them  and  said, 
satirically,  "  Go  on,"  at  the  same  time  trying  to  buy 
his  way  out  with  a  smile. 

*'  It's  your  turn,"  quickly  responded  the  jewel's 
owner,  with  something  droll  in  his  manner  that  made 
the  com  pan}'  laugh  at  the  other's  expense.  The  big- 
waisted  man  kindled,  then  smiled  again,  and  said: 

"  Was  that  emblem  of  modest  loveliness  give'  to  you 
symbolically,  or  did  you  present  it  to  yourself?  " 

"  I  took  it  for  a  debt,"  replied  the  wearer,  bowing 
joyously. 

"Ah!"  said  the  other.  "Well,  I  s'pose  it  was 
either  that  or  her  furniture?  " 

"Thanks,  yes."  There  was  a  pause,  and  then  the 
pearl's  owner  spoke  on.  "Strange  fact.  That  was 
years  ago.    And  yet  "  —  he  fondled  his  gem  with  thumb 


158  B  ON  A  VEN  TUBE. 

and  finger  and  tender  glance —  "  you're  the  first  man 
I've  met  to  whom  I  could  sincerely  and  symbolically 
present  it,  and  you  don't  want  it.     I'm  sorry." 

"I  see,"  said  the  big-waisted  man,  glaring  at  him. 

"So  do  I,"  responded  the  pearl's  owner.  A  smile 
went  round,  and  the  company  sat  looking  into  the  fire. 
Outside  the  wind  growled  and  scolded,  shook  and 
slapped  the  house,  and  thrashed  it  with  the  rain.  A 
man  sitting  against  the  chimney  said : 

"If  this  storm  keeps  on  six  hours  longer  I  reduce 
my  estimate  of  the  cotton-crop  sixty-five  thousand 
bales."  But  no  one  responded  ;  and  as  the  importance 
died  out  of  his  face  he  dropped  his  gaze  into  the  fire 
with  a  pretence  of  deep  meditation.  Presently  an- 
other, a  good-looking  young  fellow,  said  : 

"  Well,  gents,  I  never  cared  much  for  jewelry.  But 
I  like  a  nice  scarf-pin  ;  it's  nobb^'.  And  I  like  a  hand- 
some seal-ring."  He  drew  one  from  a  rather  chubby 
finger,  and  passed  it  to  his  next  neighbor,  following  it 
with  his  eyes,  and  adding:  "That's  said  to  be  a  real 
intaglio.  But  —  now,  one  thing  I  don't  like,  that's  to 
see  a  lady  wear  a  quantity  of  diamond  rings  outside  of 
her  glove,  and  heavy  gold  chains,  and" —  He  was 
interrupted.  A  long  man,  with  legs  stiffened  out  to 
the  fire,  lifted  a  cigar  between  two  fingers,  sent  a  soft 
jet  of  smoke  into  the  air,  and  began  monotonously : 

*  Chains  on  a  Southern  woman  ?    Chains  ? ' 

I  know  the  lady  that  wrote  that  piece."  He  suddenly 
gathered  himself  up  for  some  large  eflfort.  "  I  can't 
recite  it  as  she  used  to,  but" —  And  to  the  joy  of 
all  he  was  interrupted. 


THE   TAVERN  FIRESIDE.  159 

*'  Gentlemen,"  said  one,  throwing  a  cigarette  stump 
into  the  fire,  "that  brings  up  tlie  subject  of  the  war. 
By  the  b}',  do  you  know  what  that  war  cost  the  Gov- 
ernment of  the  United  States?"  He  glanced  from 
one  to  another  until  his  eye  reached  the  wearer  of  the 
pearl,  who  had  faced  about,  and  stood  now,  with  the 
jewel  glistening  in  the  firelight,  and  who  promptly 
said : 

"  Yes  ;  how  much?  " 

''ATell,"  said  the  first  questioner  with  sudden  cau- 
tion, "  I  may  be  mistaken,  but  I've  heard  that  it  cost 
six  — I   think  they  say  six  — billion  dollars.     Didn't 

it?" 

"  It  did,"  replied  the  other,  with  a  smile  of  friendly 
commendation  ;  "  it  cost  six  billion,  one  hundred  and 
eighty-nine  million,  nine  hundred  and  twenty-nine 
thousand,  nine  hundred  and  eight  dollars.  The  largest 
item  is  interest ;  one  billion,  seven  hundred  and  one 
million,  two  hundred  and  fifty-six  thousand,  one  hun- 
dred and  ninety-eight  dollars,  forty-two  cents.  The 
next  largest,  the  pay  of  troops ;  the  next,  clothing 
the  army.  If  there's  any  item  of  the  war's  expenses 
you  would  like  to  know,  ask  me.  Capturing  president 
Confederate  States  —  ninety-seven  thousand  and  thirty- 
one  dollars,  three  cents."  The  speaker's  manner  grew 
almost  gay.  The  other  smiled  defensively,  and 
responded : 

"  You've  got  a  good  memory  for  sta-stistics.  I 
haven't ;  and  yet  I  always  did  like  sta-stistics.  I'm 
no  sta-stitian,  and  yet  if  I  had  the  time  sta-stistics 
would  be  my  favorite  study  ;  I  s'pose  it's  yours." 


160  BONAVENTURE. 

The  wearer  of  tbe  pearl  shook  his  head.  "  No. 
But  I  like  it.  I  like  the  style  of  mind  that  likes  it." 
The  two  bowed  with  playful  graciousness  to  each 
other.  "  Yes,  I  do.  And  I've  studied  it,  some  little. 
I  can  tell  you  the  best  time  of  every  celebrated  trotter 
in  this  country ;  the  quickest  trip  a  steamer  ever  made 
between  Queenstown  and  New  York,  New  York  and 
Queenstown,  New  Orleans  and  New  York ;  the  great- 
est speed  ever  made  on  a  railroad  or  by  a  yacht, 
pedestrian,  carrier-pigeon,  or  defaulting  cashier ;  the 
rate  of  postage  to  every  foreign  country ;  the  excess 
of  women  over  men  in  every  State  of  the  Union  so 
afflicted  —  or  blessed,  according  to  how  you  look  at 
it ;  the  number  of  volumes  in  each  of  the  world's  ten 
largest  libraries ;  the  salary  of  ever}'  officer  of  the 
United-States  Government ;  the  average  duration  of 
life  in  a  man,  elephant,  lion,  horse,  anaconda,  tortoise, 
camel,  rabbit,  ass,  etcetera-etcetera ;  the  age  of  every 
crowned  head  in  Europe  ;  each  State's  legal  and  com- 
mercial rate  of  interest ;  and  how  long  it  takes  a  health}' 
boy  to  digest  apples,  baked  beans,  cabbage,  dates, 
eggs,  fish,  green  corn,  h,  i,  j,  k,  1-m-n-o-p,  quinces, 
rice,  shrimps,  tripe,  veal,  3'ams,  and  any  thing  you  can 
cook  commencing  witli  z.  It's  a  fascinating  study. 
But  it's  not  my  favorite. 

'The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man.' 


Sole  judge  of  truth,  in  endless  error  hurled, 
The  glory,  jest,  and  riddle  of  the  world ! ' 

"  I  love  to  study  human  nature.    That's  my  favorite 
study  !     The  art  of  reading  the  inner  human  nature  by 


THE   TAVERN  FIRESIDE.  161 

the  outer  aspect  is  of  immeasurable  interest  and  bound- 
less practical  value,  and  the  man  who  can  practise  it 
skilfully  and  apply  it  sagaciousl}'  is  on  the  high  road 
to  fortune,  and  why?  Because  to  know  it  thoroughly 
is  to  know  whom  to  trust  and  how  far  ;  to  select  wisely 
a  friend,  a  confidant,  a  partner  in  any  enterprise  ;  to 
shun  the  untrustworthy,  to  anticipate  and  turn  to  our 
personal  advantage  the  merits,  faults,  and  deficiencies 
of  all,  and  to  evolve  from  their  character  such  practical 
results  as  we  may  choose  for  our  own  ends  ;  but  a 
thorough  knowledge  is  attained  only  In'  incessant  ob- 
servation and  long  practice  ;  like  music,  it  demands 
a  special  talent  possessed  by  different  individuals  in 
variable  quantity  or  not  at  all.  You,  gentlemen,  all 
are,  what  I  am  not,  commercial  tourists.  Before  3'ou 
I  must  be  modest.  You,  each  of  you,  have  been 
chosen  from  surrounding  hundreds  or  thousands  for 
your  superior  abilit}^  natural  or  acquired,  to  scan  the 
human  face  and  form  and  know  whereof  you  see.  I 
look  5^ou  in  the  eye  —  you  look  me  in  the  eye  —  for 
the  eye,  though  it  does  not  tell  all,  tells  much — it 
is  the  key  of  character  —  it  has  been  called  the  mirror 
of  the  soul  — 

'And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes.' 

And  so  looking  you  read  me.  You  say  to  yourself, 
'  There's  a  man  with  no  concealments,  yet  who  speaks 
not  till  he's  spoken  to ;  knows  when  to  stop,  and 
stops.'  You  note  my  pale  eyebrows,  my  slightly 
prominent    and    pointed    chin,    somewhat    over-sized 


162  BONAVENTURE. 

mouth  ;  small,  well-spread  ears,  faiutl}^  aquiline  nose ; 
fine,  thin,  ])loncle  hair,  a  depression  in  the  skull  where 
the  bump  of  self-conceit  ought  to  be,  and  you  say,  '  A 
man  that  knows  his  talents  without  being  vain  of  them  ; 
who  not  only  minds  his  own  business,  but  loves  it,  and 
who  in  that  business,  be  it  buggy-whips  or  be  it  vrash- 
ine,  or  be  it  sometliing  far  nobler,'  —  which,  let  me 
say  modestly,  it  is,  — '  simply  goes  to  the  head  of  the 
class  and  stays  there.'  Yes,  sirs,  if  I  say  that  reading 
the  human  countenance  is  one  of  my  accomplishments, 
I  am  diffidently  mindful  that  in  this  company,  I,  myself, 
am  read,  perused;  no  other  probably  so  well  read  —  I 
mean  so  exhaustively  perused.  For  there  is  one  thing 
about  me,  gentlemen,  if  you'll  allow  me  to  say  it,  I'm 
short  metre,  large  print,  and  open  to  the  public  seven 
days  in  the  week.  And  yet  you  probably  all  make  one 
mistake  about  me  :  you  take  me  for  the  alumni  of  some 
university.  Not  so.  I'm  a  self-made  man.  I  made 
myself ;  and  considering  that  I'm  the  first  man  I  ever 
made,  I  think  —  pardon  the  seeming  egotism  —  I  think 
I've  done  well.  A  few  years  ago  there  dwelt  in  hum- 
ble obscurity  among  the  granite  hills  of  New  England, 
earning  his  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow  upon 
his  father's  farm,  a  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame 
unknown.  But  one  day  a  voice  within  him  said, 
'  Tarbox '  —  George  AV.,  —  namesake  of  the  man  who 
never  told  a  lie,  —  'do  you  want  to  succeed  in  life? 
Then  leave  the  production  of  tobacco  and  cider  to  un- 
ambitious age,  and  find  that  business  wherein  you  can 
always  give  a  man  ten  times  as  much  for  his  dollar  as 
his  dollar  is  worth.'    The  meaning  was  plain,  and  from 


THE   TAVERN  FIRESIDE.  163 

that  time  forth  young  Tarbox  aspired  to  become  a 
book-agent.     'Twas  not  long  ere  he,  like 

'  Young  Harry  Bluff,  left  his  friends  and  his  home, 
And  his  dear  native  land,  o'er  the  wide  world  to  roam.' 

Books  became  his  line,  and  full  soon  he  was  the  head 
of  the  line.  And  why?  Was  it  because  in  the  first 
short  twelve  mouths  of  his  career  he  sold,  delivered, 
and  got  the  money  for,  5107  copies  of  '  Mend-me-at- 
Home  '  ?  No.  AVas  it,  then,  because  three  years  later 
he  sold  in  one  year,  with  no  other  assistance  than  a 
man  to  drive  the  horse  and  wagon,  hold  the  blackboard, 
and  hand  out  the  books,  10,003  copies  of  'Rapid  'Rith- 
metic  '  ?  It  was  not.  Was  it,  then,  because  in  1878, 
reading  aright  the  public  mind,  he  said  to  his  pub- 
lishers, wdiose  confidence  in  him  was  unbounded,  'It 
ain't  "  Meud-me-at-Home  "  the  people  want  most,  nor 
"  Rapid  'Rithmetic,"  nor  "  Heal  Thyself,"  nor  "  I 
meet  the  Emergency,"  nor  the  "  Bouquet  of  Poetry 
and  Song."  What  they  want  is  all  these  in  one.'  — 
'Abridged?'  said  the  publishers.  'Enlarged!'  said 
young  Tarbox,  —  '  enlarged  and  copiously  illustrated, 
complete  in  one  volume,  price,  cloth,  three  dollars, 
sheep  four,  half  morocco,  gilt  edges,  five  ;  real  value 
to  the  subscriber,  two  hundred  and  fifty;  title,  "The 
Album  of  Universal  Information  ;  author,  G.  W.  Tar- 
box ;  editor,  G.  W.  T.  ;  agent  for  the  United  States, 
the  Canadas,  and  iMexico,  G.  W.  Tarbox,"  that  is  to 
say,  myself.'  That,  gentlemen,  is  the  reason  I  stand 
at  the  head  of  my  line  ;  not  merely  because  on  every 
copy  sold  I  make  an  author's  as  well  as  a  solicitor's 


164  BONAVENTURE. 

margin  ;  hut  because,  being  the  author,  I  know  whereof 
I  sell.  A  man  that's  got  m}-  book  has  got  a  coHege 
education  ;  and  when  a  man  taps  me,  —  for,  gentle- 
men, I  never  spout  until  I'm  tapped,  —  and  informa- 
tion bursts  from  me  like  water  from  a  street  hydrant, 
and  he  comes  to  find  out  that  every  thing  I  tell  is  in 
that  wonderful  book,  and  that  every  thing  that  is 
in  that  wonderful  book  I  can  tell,  he  wants  to  own 
a  copy ;  and  when  1  tell  him  I  can't  spare  my  sample 
copy,  but  I'll  take  his  subscription,  he  smiles  grate- 
fully"— 

A  cold,  wet  blast,  rushing  into  the  room  from  the 
hall,  betrayed  the  opening  of  the  front  door.  The  door 
was  shut  again,  and  a  well-formed,  muscular  young 
man  who  had  entered  stood  in  the  parlor  doorway 
lifting  his  hat  from  his  head,  shaking  the  rain  from  it, 
and  looking  at  it  with  amuyed  diffidence.  Mr.  Tarbox 
turned  about  once  more  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  gave 
the  figure  a  quick  glance  of  scrutiny,  then  a  second 
and  longer  one,  and  then  dropped  his  e3'es  to  the  floor. 
The  big-waisted  man  shifted  his  chair,  tipped  it  back, 
and  said : 

''  He  smiles  gratefully,  you  say?  " 

'^Yes." 

"  And  subscribes?  " 

*' If  he's  got  any  sense,"  Mr.  Tarbox  replied  in  a 
pre-occupied  tone.  His  eyes  were  on  the  young  man 
who  still  stood  in  the  door.  This  person  must  have 
reached  the  house  in  some  covered  conveyance.  Even 
his  boot-tops  were  dry  or  nearly  so.  He  was  rather 
pleasing  to  see  ;  of  good  stature,  his  clothing  cheap. 


TUB   TAVERN  FIRESIDE,  165 

A  dark-blue  flannel  sack  of  the  ready-made  sort  hung 
on  him  not  too  well.  Light  as  the  garment  was,  he 
showed  no  sign  that  he  felt  the  penetrating  cold  out  of 
which  he  had  just  come.  His  throat  and  beardless 
face  had  the  good  brown  of  outdoor  life,  his  broad 
chest  strained  the  two  buttons  of  his  sack,  his  head 
was  well-poised,  his  feet  were  shapely,  and  but  for 
somewhat  too  much  roundness  about  the  shoulder- 
blades,  noticeable  in  the  side  view  as  he  carefully  stood 
a  long,  queer  package  that  was  not  buggy -whips 
against  the  hat-rack,  it  would  have  been  fair  to  pro- 
nounce him  an  athlete. 

The  eyes  of  the  fireside  group  were  turned  toward 
him  ;  but  not  upon  him.  They  rested  on  a  girl  of 
sixteen  who  had  come  down  the  hall,  and  was  stand- 
ing before  the  new-comer  just  beyond  the  door.  The 
registrv-book  was  iust  there  on  a  desk  in  the  hall.  She 
stood  with  a  freshly  dipped  i>en  in  her  hand,  ignor- 
ing- the  o-aze  from  the  fireside  with  a  faintly  overdone 
calmness  of  face.  The  new  guest  came  forward,  and, 
in  a  manner  that  show^ed  slender  acquaintance  with  the 
operation,  slowly  registered  his  name  and  address. 

He  did  it  with  such  pains-taking,  that,  upside  down 
as  the  writing  was,  she  read  it  as  he  wrote.  As  the 
Christian  name  appeared,  her  perfunctory  glance  be- 
came attention.  As  the  surname  followed,  the  atten- 
tion became  interest  and  recognition.  And  as  the 
address  was  added,  Mr.  Tarbox  detected  pleasure  dan- 
cing behind  the  long  fringe  of  her  discreet  eyes,  and 
marked  their  stolen  glance  of  quick  inspection  upon  the 
short,  dark  locks  and  strong  young  form  still  bent  over 


166  BONAVENTURE. 

the  last  strokes  of  the  writing.  But  when  he  straight- 
ened up,  carefully  shut  the  book,  and  fixed  his  brown 
eyes  upon  hers  in  guileless  expectation  of  instructions, 
he  saw  nothing  to  indicate  that  he  was  not  the  entire 
stranger  that  she  was  to  him. 

"  You  done  had  sopper?  "  she  asked.  The  uncom- 
mon kindness  of  such  a  question  at  such  an  hour  of  a 
tavern's  evening  was  lost  on  the  young  man's  obvious 
inexperience,  and  as  one  schooled  to  the  hap-hazard 
of  forest  and  field  he  merel}'  replied : 

'•  Naw,  I  didn'  had  any." 

The  girl  turned  —  what  a  wealth  of  black  hair  she 
had  !  —  and  disappeared  as  she  moved  away  along  the 
hall.  Her  voice  was  heard:  ''Mamma?"  Then 
there  was  the  silence  of  an  unheard  consultation.  The 
young  man  moved  a  step  or  two  into  the  parlor  and 
returned  toward  the  door  as  a  light  double  foot-fall 
approached  again  down  the  hall  and  the  girl  appeared 
once  more,  somewhat  preceded  by  a  small,  tired- 
looking,  pretty  woman  some  thirtj'-five  ^-ears  of  age, 
of  slow,  self-contained  movement  and  clear,  meditative 
eyes. 

But  the  guest,  too,  had  been  re-enforced.  A  man 
had  come  silently  from  the  fireside,  taken  his  hand, 
and  now,  near  the  doorway,  was  softly  shaking  it  and 
smiling.  Surprise,  pleasure,  and  reverential  regard 
were  mingled  in  the  young  man's  face,  and  his  open 
mouth  was  gasping  — 

"Mister  Tarbox  !  " 

"Claude  St.  Pierre,  after  six  years,  I'm  glad  to  see 
you.  — Madame,  take  good  care  of  Claude.  — No  fear 


MARGUERITE.  167 

but  she  will,  m}'  bo}' ;  if  aii3'body  in  Louisiana  knows 
how  to  take  care  of  a  traveller,  it's  Madame  Beau- 
soleil."  He  smiled  for  all.  The  daughter's  large  black 
eyes  danced,  but  the  mother  asked  Claude,  with  un- 
moved countenance  and  soft  tone  : 

"You  are  Claude  St.  Pierre?  —  from  Gran' 
Point'?" 

"  Yass." 

"  Dass  lately  since  yon  left  yondah?  " 

"About  two  month'." 

"  Bonaveuture  Deschamps  —  he  was  well?" 

"Yass."  Claude's  eyes  were  full  of  a  glad  sur- 
prise, and  asked  a  question  that  his  lips  did  not  dare 
to  venture  upon.  Madame  Beausoleil  read  it,  and  she 
said : 

""We  was  raise'  together,  Bonaventure  and  me." 
She  waved  her  hand  toward  her  daughter.  "  He  teach 
her  to  read.  Sect  down  to  the  fire  ;  we  make  you  some 
sopper." 


CHAPTER    IV. 


MARGUERITE. 


Out  in  the  kitchen,  while  the  coffee  was  dripping 
and  the  ham  and  eggs  frying,  the  mother  was  very 
silent,  and  the  daughter  said  little,  but  followed  hernow 
and  then  with  furtive  liftings  of  her  young  black  eyes. 
Marguerite  remembered  Bonaventure  Deschamps  well 
and  lovingly.     For  years  she  had  seen  the  letters  that 


168  BONAVENTURE. 

at  long  intervals  came  from  him  at  Grande  Pointe  to 
her  mother  here.  In  almost  every  one  of  them  she 
had  read  high  praises  of  Claude.  He  had  grown,  thus, 
to  be  the  hero  of  her  imagination.  She  had  wondered 
if  it  could  ever  happen  that  he  would  come  within  her 
sight,  and  if  so,  when,  where,  how.  And  now,  here 
at  a  time  of  all  times  when  it  would  have  seemed  least 
possible,  he  had,  as  it  were,  rained  down. 

She  wondered  to-night,  with  more  definiteness  of 
thought  than  ever  before,  what  were  the  deep  feelings 
which  her  reticent  little  mother  —  Marguerite  was  an 
inch  the  tallet  —  kept  hid  in  that  dear  breast.  Rarely 
had  emotion  moved  it.  She  remembered  its  terrible 
heavings  at  the  time  of  her  father's  death,  and  the 
later  silent  downpour  of  tears  when  her  only  sister  and 
brother  were  taken  in  one  day.  Since  then,  those 
eyes  had  rarely  been  wet ;  3'et  more  than  on.ce  or  twice 
she  had  seen  tears  in  them  when  the}'  were  reading  a 
letter  from  Grande  Pointe.  Had  her  mother  ever  had 
something  more  than  a  sister's  love  for  Bonaventure? 
Had  Bonaventure  loved  her?  And  when?  Before  her 
marriage,  or  after  her  widowhood? 

The  only  answer  that  came  to  her  as  she  now  stood, 
knife  in  hand,  by  the  griddle,  was  a  roar  of  laughter 
that  found  its  waj'  through  the  hall,  the  dining-room, 
and  two  closed  doors,  from  the  men  about  the  waiting- 
room  fireside.  That  was  the  third  time  she  had  heard 
it.  What  could  have  put  them  so  soon  into  such  gay 
mood?  Could  it  be  Claude?  Somehow  she  hoped  it 
was  not.  Her  mother  reminded  her  that  tiie  batter- 
cakes  would  burn.  She  quickly-  turned  them.  The 
laugh  came  again. 


MARGUERITE.  169 

When  by  and  by  she  went  to  bid  Claude  to  his  re- 
past, the  laughter,  as  she  reached  the  door  of  the 
waiting-room,  burst  upon  her  as  the  storm  would  have 
done  had  she  opened  the  front  door.  It  came  from  all 
but  Claude  and  Mr.  Tarbox.  Claude  sat  with  a  knee 
in  his  hands,  smiling.  The  semicircle  had  widened  out 
from  the  fire,  and  in  the  midst  Mr.  Tarbox  stood  telling 
a  story,  of  which  Grande  Pointe  was  the  scene,  Bona- 
venture  Deschamps  the  hero,  a  school-examination  the 
circumstance,  and  he,  G.  W.,  the  accidental  arbiter  of 
destinies  that  hung  upon  its  results.  The  big-waisted 
man  had  retired  for  the  night,  and  half  an  eye  could 
see  that  the  story-teller  had  captivated  the  whole  re- 
maining audience.  He  was  just  at  the  end  as  Mar- 
guerite re-appeared  at  the  door.  The  laugh  suddenly 
ceased,  and  then  all  rose  ;  it  was  high  bed-time. 

"And  did  they  get  married?"  asked  one.  Three 
or  four  gathered  close  to  hear  the  answer. 

"  Who?  Sidonie  and  Bonnyventure?  Yes.  I  didn't 
stay  to  see.  I  went  away  into  Mississippi,  Tennessee, 
and  Alabama,  and  just  only  a  few  weeks  ago  took  a 
notion  to  try  this  Attakapas  and  Oi)elousas  region. 
But  that's  what  Claude  tells  me  to-night  —  married 
more  than  live  years  ago.  —Claude,  your  supper  wants 
you.  Want  me  to  go  out  and  sit  with  you?  Oh,  no 
trouble  !  not  the  slightest !  It  will  make  me  feel  as  if 
I  was  nearer  to  Bonnyventure." 

And  so  the  group  about  Claude's  late  supper  num- 
bered four.  And  because  each  had  known  Bonaven- 
ture,  though  each  in  a  very  different  way  from  any 
other,  they  were  four  friends  when  Claude  had  demol 


170  BONAVENTURE. 

ished  the  liam  and  eggs,  the  strong  black  coffee,  and 
the  griddle-cakes  and  sirop-de-batterie. 

At  the  top  of  the  hall  stairway,  as  Mr.  Tarbox  was 
on  his  wa}'  to  bed,  one  of  the  dispersed  fireside  circle 
stopped  him,  saying : 

"  That's  an  awful  good  story  I  " 

*'  I  wouldn't  try  a  poor  one  on  you." 

"  Oh  !  — but  really,  now,  in  good  earnest,  it  is  good. 
It's  good  in  more  waj'S  than  one.  Now,  you  know, 
that  man,  hid  away  there  in  the  swamp  at  Grande 
Pointe,  he  little  thinks  that  six  or  eight  men  away  off 
here  in  Vermilionville  are  going  to  bed  to-night  better 
men  —  that's  it,  sir  —  yes,  sir.  that's  it  —  yes,  sir!  — 
better  men  —  just  for  having  heard  of  him  !  " 

Mr.  Tarbox  smiled  with  affectionate  approval,  and 
began  to  move  away  ;  Init  the  other  put  out  a  hand  — 

"Say,  look  here;  I'm  going  away  on  that  two 
o'clock  train  to-night.  I  want  that  book  of  yours. 
And  I  don't  want  to  subscribe  and  wait.  I  want  the 
book  now.  That's  ni}'  way.  I'm  just  that  kind  of  a 
man  ;  I'm  the  iiowest  man  3'ou  ever  met  up  with. 
That  book's  just  the  kind  of  thing  for  a  man  like  me 
■who  ain't  got  no  time  to  go  exhaustively  delving  and 
investigating  and  researching  into  things,  and  yet  has 
got  to  keep  as  sharp  as  a  brier." 

Mr.  Tarbox,  on  looking  into  his  baggage,  found  he 
could  oblige  this  person.  Before  night  fell  again  he 
had  done  virtually  the  same  thing,  one  by  one,  for  all 
the  rest.  By  that  time  they  were  all  gone  ;  but  Mr. 
Tarbox  made  Vermilionville  his  base  of  operations  for 
several  days. 


MARGUERITE.  171 

Claude  also  tarried.  For  reasons  present!}^  to  ap- 
pear, the  "ladies'  parlor,"  a  small  room  behind  the 
waiting-room,  with  just  one  door,  which  let  into  the 
hall  at  the  hall's  inner  end,  was  given  up  to  his  use  ; 
and  of  evenings  not  only  Mr.  Tarbox,  but  Marguerite 
and  her  mother  as  well,  met  with  him,  gathering  famil- 
iarly about  a  lamp  that  other  male  lodgers  were  not 
invited  to  hover  around. 

The  group  was  not  idle.  Mr.  Tarbox  held  big  hanks 
of  blue  and  yellow  yarn,  which  Zosephine  wound  off 
into  balls.  A  square  table  quite  filled  the  centre  of 
the  room.  There  was  a  confusion  of  objects  on  it, 
and  now  on  one  side  and  now  on  another  Claude  leaned 
over  it  and  slowly  toiled,  from  morning  until  evening 
alone,  and  in  the  evening  with  these  three  about  him ; 
Marguerite,  with  her  sewing  dropped  upon  the  floor, 
watching  his  work  with  an  interest  almost  wholly 
silent,  only  making  now  and  then  a  murmured  com- 
ment, her  eyes  passing  at  intervals  from  his  pre-occu- 
pied  eyes  to  his  hands,  and  her  hand  now  and  then 
guessing  and  supplying  his  want  as  he  looked  for  one 
thing  or  another  that  had  got  out  of  sight.  What  was 
he  doing? 

As  to  Marguerite,  more  than  he  was  aware  of. 
Zosephine  Beausoleil  saw,  and  was  already  easting 
about  somewhat  anxiously  in  her  mind  to  think  what, 
if  any  thing,  ought  to  be  done  about  it.  She  saw  her 
child's  sewing  lie  forgotten  on  the  floor,  and  the  eyes 
that  should  have  been  following  the  needle,  fixed  often 
on  the  absorbed,  unconscious,  boyish-manly  face  so 
near  by.     She  saw  them  scanning  the  bent  brows,  the 


172  BONAVEXTURE. 

smooth  bronzed  cheek,  the  purposeful  mouth,  and 
the  unusual  length  of  dark  eyelashes  that  gave  its 
charm  to  the  whole  face  ;  and  she  saw  them  quickl}^ 
withdrawn  wlienever  the  face  with  those  lashes  was 
lifted  and  an  unsuspecting  smile  of  3'oung  companion- 
ship broke  slowly  about  the  relaxing  lips  and  the  soft, 
deep-curtained  eyes.  No  ;  Claude  little  knew  what  he 
was  doing.  Neither  did  Marguerite.  But,  aside  from 
her,  what  was  his  occupation?     I  will  explain. 

About  five  weeks  earlier  than  this,  a  passenger  on 
an  eastward-bound  train  of  Morgan's  Louisiana  and 
Texas  Railway  stood  at  the  rear  door  of  the  last  coach, 
eying  critically  the  track  as  it  glided  swiftly  from  under 
the  train  and  shrank  perpetually  into  the  west.  The 
coach  was  nearW  empty.  No  one  was  near  him  save 
the  brakeman,  and  by  and  by  he  took  his  attention 
from  the  track  and  let  it  rest  on  this  person.  There 
he  found  a  singular  attraction.  Had  he  seen  that  face 
before,  or  why  did  it  provoke  vague  reminiscences  of 
great  cypresses  overhead,  and  deep-shaded  leafy  dis- 
tances witli  bayous  winding  out  of  sight  through  them, 
and  cane-brakes  impenetrable  to  the  eye,  and  axe- 
strokes —  heard  but  unseen — slashing  through  them 
onl\'  a  few  feet  away?     Suddenly  he  knew. 

"Wasn't  it  your  father,"  he  said,  "who  was  my 
guide  up  Bayou  des  Acadiens  and  Blind  River  the  time 
I  made  the  survey  in  that  big  swamp  north  of  Grande 
Pointe?  Isn't  your  name  Claude  St.  Pierre?*'  And 
presently  they  were  acquainted. 

"You  know  I  took  a  great  fancy  to  your  father. 
And  you've  been  clear  through  the  arithmetic  twice? 


MARGUERITE.  173 

Why,  see  here;  you're  just  the  sort  of  man  I  — 
Look  here  ;  don't  you  want  to  learn  to  be  a  survey- 
or?" The  questioner  saw  that  same  amljition  which 
had  pleased  him  so  in  the  father,  leap  for  jo}'  in  the 
son's  eyes. 

An  agreement  was  quickly  reached.  Then  the  sur- 
veyor wandered  into  another  coach,  and  nothing  more 
passed  between  them  that  day  save  one  matter,  which, 
though  trivial,  has  its  place.  Wiien  the  survej'or  re- 
turned to  tlie  rear  train,  Claude  was  in  a  corner  seat 
gazing  pensively  through  the  window  and  out  across 
the  wide,  backward-flying,  purpling  green  cane-fields 
of  St.  Mary,  to  where  on  the  far  left  the  live-oaks 
of  Bayou  Teche  seemed  hoveringly  to  follow  on  the 
flank  of  their  whooping  and  swaggering  rail  way- train. 
Claude  turned  and  met  the  stranger's  regard  with  a 
faint  smile.     His  new  friend  spoke  first. 

"Matters  may  turn  out  so  that  we  can  have  j'our 
father  "  — 

Claude's  eyes  answered  with  a  glad  flash.  "  Dass 
what  I  was  t'inkin'  !  "  he  said,  with  a  soft  glow  that 
staid  even  when  he  fell  again  into  revery. 

But  when  the  engineer  —  for  it  seems  that  he  was 
an  engineer,  chief  of  a  party  engaged  in  redeeming 
some  extensive  waste  swamp  and  marsh  lands  —  when 
the  chief  engineer,  on  the  third  day  afterward,  drew 
near  the  place  where  he  suddenly  recollected  Claude 
would  be  waiting  to  enter  his  service,  and  recalled  this 
part  of  their  previous  interview,  he  said  to  himself, 
•'  No,  it  would  be  good  for  the  father,  but  not  best  for 
the  son,"  and  fell  to  thinking  how  often  parents  are 


174  BONAVENTURE. 

called  upon  to  wrench  tlioir  affections  down  into  cruel 
bounds  to  make  tiie  foundations  of  their  children's 
prosperity. 

Claude  widened  to  his  new  experience  with  the 
rapidity  of  something  hatched  out  of  a  shell.  .More- 
over, accident  was  in  his  favor ;  the  party  was  short- 
handed  in  its  upper  ranks,  and  Claude  found  hnnself 
by  this  stress  taken  uito  larger  and  larger  tasks  as  fast 
as  he  could,  though  ever  so  crudel}',  qualify  for  them, 

"  'Tisn't  at  all  the  best  thing  for  you,"  said  one  of 
the  surveyors,  '^  but  I'll  lend  you  some  books  that  will 
teach  you  the  why  as  well  as  the  how." 

In  the  use  of  these  books  by  lantern-light  certain 
skill  with  the  pen  showed  itself  ;  and  when  at  length 
one  day  a  despatch  reached  camp  from  the  al)sent 
"  chief  "  stating  that  in  two  or  three  days  certain  mat- 
ters would  take  him  to  Verrailiouville,  and  ordering 
that  some  one  be  sent  at  once  with  all  necessary  field 
notes  and  appliances,  and  give  his  undivided  time  to 
the  making  of  certain  urgently  needed  maps,  and  the 
only  real  draughtsman  of  the  party  was  ill  with  swamp- 
fever,  Claude  was  sent. 

On  his  last  half-day's  journey  toward  the  place,  he 
had  fallen  in  with  an  old  gentleman  whom  others 
called  "Governor,"  a  tall,  trim  figure,  bent  but  little 
under  fourscore  ^^ears,  with  cheerful  voice  and  ready 
speech,  and  eyes  hidden  behind  dark  glasses  and 
flickering  in  their  deep  sockets. 

"Go  to  Madame  Beausoleil's,"  he  advised  Claude. 
"That  is  the  place  for  you.  Excellent  person;  I've 
known  her  from  childhood ;  a  woman  worthy  a  higher 


MARG  UERITE.  175 

station."  And  so,  all  by  accident,  chance  upon 
chance,  here  was  Claude  making  maps  ;  and  this  de- 
lightful work,  he  thought,  was  really  all  he  was  doing, 
in  Zosephine's  little  inner  parlor. 

By  and  by  it  was  done.  The  engineer  had  not  yet 
arrived.  The  storm  had  delayed  work  in  one  place 
and  undone  work  in  another,  and  he  was  detained 
bej'ond  expectation.  But  a  letter  said  he  would  come 
in  a  day  or  two  more,  and  some  maps  of  earlier  sur- 
veys, drawn  by  skilled  workmen  in  great  New  Orleans, 
arrived  ;  seeing  which,  Claude  blushed  for  his  own  and 
fell  to  work  to  make  them  over. 

"If  at  first  you  not  succeed,"  said  Claude,  — 

'  ^  Try  —  try  aga  -  a  -  ain, ' '  responded  Marguerite  ; 
"  Bonaventure  learn  me  that  poetry  ;  and  you?  " 

"Yass,"  said  Claude.  He  stood  looking  down  at 
bis  work  and  not  seeing  it.  What  he  saw  was  Grande 
Pointe  in  the  sunset  hour  of  a  spring  day  six  years 
gone,  the  wet,  spongy  margin  of  a  tiny  bayou  under 
his  feet,  the  great  swamp  at  his  back,  the  leafy  under- 
growth all  around  ;  his  canoe  and  paddle  waiting  for 
him,  and  Bonaventure  repeating  to  him  —  swamp  ur- 
chin of  fourteen  —  the  costliest  words  of  kindness  — 
to  both  of  them  the  costliest  —  that  he  had  ever  heard, 
ending  with  these  two  that  Marguei'ite  had  spoken. 
As  he  resumed  his  work,  he  said,  without  lifting  his 
eyes : 

"  Seem'  to  me  'f  I  could  make  myself  like  any  man 
in  dat  whole  worl',  I  radder  make  myself  like  Bona- 
venture.    And  you?  " 

She  was  so  slow  to  answer  that  he  looked  at  her. 


176  BONAVENTUUE. 

Even  then  slie  mcrelj^  kept  on  sweeping  her  fingei*s 
slowly  and  idly  back  and  forth  on  the  table,  and,  glan- 
cing down  npon  them,  said  without  enthusiasm : 
*' Yass." 

Yet  they  both  loved  Bonaventure,  each  according  to 
knowledge  of  him.  Nor  did  their  common  likings  stop 
with  him.  The  things  he  had  taught  Claude  to  love 
and  seek  suddenly  became  the  admiration  of  Margue- 
rite. Aspirations  —  aspirations!  —  began  to  stir  and 
hum  in  her  young  heart,  and  to  pour  forth  like  waking 
bees  in  the  warm  presence  of  spring.  Claude  was  a 
new  interpretation  of  life  to  her  ;  as  one  caught  abed 
by  the  first  sunrise  at  sea,  her  whole  spirit  leaped, 
with  unmeasured  self-reproach,  into  fresh  garments  and 
to  a  new  and  beautiful  stature,  and  looked  out  upon  a 
wider  heaven  and  earth  than  ever  it  had  seen  or  de- 
sired to  see  before.  All  at  once  the  life  was  more  than 
meat  and  the  body  than  raiment.  Presently  she  sprang 
to  action.  In  tlie  convent  school,  whose  white  belfry 
you  could  see  from  the  end  of  Madame  Beausoleil's 
balcony,  whither  Zosephine  had  sent  her  after  teaching 
her  all  she  herself  knew,  it  had  been  "  the  mind  for 
knowledge  ;  "  now  it  was  '*  knowledge  for  the  mind." 
Mental  training  and  enrichment  had  a  value  now, 
never  before  dreamed  of.  The  old  school-books  were 
got  down,  recalled  from  banishment.  Nothing  ever 
had  been  hard  to  learn,  and  now  she  found  that  all  she 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  merely  required,  like  the 
books,  a  little  beating  clear  of  dust. 

And  Claude  was  there  to  help.     "If  C" C! 

"  having  a  start  of  one  hundred  miles,  travels" 


MABGUERITE.  177 

—  so  and  so,  and  so  and  so,  —  "  how  fast  must  I  travel 
in  order  to  "  —  etc.  She  cannot  work  the  problem  for 
thinking  of  what  it  sjmibolizes.  As  C  himself  takes 
the  slate,  her  dark  eyes,  lifted  an  instant  to  his,  are 
large  with  painful  meaning,  for  she  sees  at  a  glance  she 
must  travel  —  if  the  arithmetical  is  the  true  answer  — 
more  than  the  whole  distance  now  between  them.  But 
Claude  says  there  is  an  easy  way.  She  draws  her 
chair  nearer  and  nearer  to  his  ;  he  bows  over  the  prob- 
lem, and  she  cannot  follow  his  pencil  without  bending 
her  head  very  close  to  his  —  closer  —  closer  —  until 
fluffy  bits  of  her  black  hair  touch  the  thick  locks  on  his 
temples.  Look  to  your  child,  Zosephine  Beausoleil, 
look  to  her !  Ah !  she  can  look  ;  but  what  can  she 
do? 

She  saw  the  whole  matter  ;  saw  more  than  merely 
an  unripe  girl  smitten  with  the  bright  smile,  goodly 
frame,  and  bewitching  eyes  of  a  promising  young 
rustic ;  saw  her  heart  ennobled,  her  nature  enlarged, 
and  all  the  best  motives  of  Ufe  suddenly  illuminated 
by  the  presence  of  one  to  be  mated  with  whom  prom- 
ised the  key-note  of  all  harmonies  ;  promised  heart- 
fellowship  in  the  ever-hoping  effort  to  lift  poor  daily 
existence  higher  and  higher  out  of  the  dust  and  into 
the  light.  What  could  she  say?  If  great  spirits  in 
men  or  maidens  went  always  or  only  with  high  fortune, 
a  mere  Acadian  lass,  a  tavern  maiden,  were  safe 
enough,  come  one  fate  or  another.  If  Mai-guerite 
were  like  many  a  girl  in  high  ranks  and  low,  to  whom 
any  husband  were  a  husband,  any  snug  roof  a  home, 
and  any  living  life —     But  what  may  a  maiden  do,  or 


178  B  OX  A  ]  ^ENTURE. 

a  mother  ))i(l  her  do,  when  she  looks  upon  the  30uth  so 
shaped  witliout  and  within  to  her  young  soul's  belief 
in  its  wants,  that  all  other  men  are  but  beasts  of  the 
field  and  creeping  things,  and  he  alone  Adam?  To 
whom  could  the  widow  turn?  Father,  mother?  —  Gone 
to  their  rest.  The  cure  who  had  stood  over  her  in 
baptism,  marriage,  and  bereavement?  —  Called  long 
ago  to  higher  dignities  and  wider  usefulness  in  distant 
fields.  Oil  for  the  presence  and  counsel  of  Bonaven- 
ture  !  It  is  true,  here  was  Mr.  Tarbox,  so  kind,  and 
so  replete  with  information  ;  so  shrewd  and  so  read}'  to 
advise.  She  spurned  the  thought  of  leaning  on  him  ; 
and  yet  the  oft-spurned  thought  as  often  returned. 
Already  his  generous  interest  had  explored  her  pecu- 
niary affairs,  and  his  suggestions,  too  good  to  be  ig- 
nored, bad  moulded  them  into  better  shape,  and  enlarged 
their  net  results.  And  he  could  tell  how  many  eight- 
ounce  tacks  make  a  pound,  and  what  electricity  is,  and 
could  cure  a  wart  in  ten  minutes,  and  recite  "  Oh  !  why 
should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud?"  And  this 
evening,  the  seventh  since  the  storm,  when  for  one 
weak  moment  she  had  allowed  the  conversation  to 
drift  toward  wedlock,  he  had  stated  a  woman's  chances 
of  marrying  between  the  ages  of  fifteen  and  twenty, 
to  wit,  14^  per  cent;  and  between  thirty  and  thirt}'- 
five,  15^. 

'^  Hah  !  "  exclaimed  Zos6phine,  her  eyes  flashing  as 
they  had  not  done  in  many  a  day,  "  'tis  not  dat  way! 
—  not  in  Opelousas  !  " 

"  Arithmeticall}'  speaking  !  "  the  statistician  quickly 
explained.     He  ventured  to  lay  a   forefinger  on    the 


FATHER  AND  SON.  179 

back  of  her  hand,  but  one  glance  of  her  eye  removed 
it.  "You  see,  that's  merely  arithmetically  considered. 
Now,  of  course,  looking  at  it  geographically  —  why,  of 
course  !     And  —  why,  as  to  that,  there  are  ladies  "  — 

Madame  Beausoleil  rose,  left  Mr.  Tarbox  holding 
the  3'arn,  and  went  down  the  hall,  whose  outer  door 
had  opened  and  shut.  A  moment  later  she  entered 
the  room  again. 

"Claude!  " 

Marguerite's  heart  sank.  Her  guess  was  right :  the 
chief  engineer  had  come.  And  early  in  the  morning 
Claude  was  gone. 


CHAPTER    V. 


FATHER    AND    SON. 


Such  strange  things  storms  do,  —  here  purifying  the 
air,  yonder  treading  down  rich  harvests,  now  replenish- 
ing the  streams,  and  now  strewing  shores  with  wrecks ; 
here  a  blessing,  there  a  calamity.  See  what  this  one 
had  done  for  Marguerite  I  Well,  what?  She  could 
not  lament ;  she  dared  not  rejoice.  Oh  !  if  she  were 
Claude  and  Claude  were  she,  how  quickly  — 

She  wondered  how  many  miles  a  day  she  could  learn 
to  walk  if  she  should  start  out  into  the  world  on  foot 
to  find  somebody,  as  she  had  heard  that  Bonaventure 
had  once  done  to  find  her  mother's  lover.  There  are  no 
Bonaventures  now,  she  thinks,  in  these  decayed  times. 


180  BONAVE^'TURE. 

*'  Mamma,"  —  her  speech  was  French,  —  "  why  do 
we  never  see  Bonaventure?  How  far  is  it  to  Grande 
Pointe?" 

''  Ah  !  my  child,  a  hundred  miles  ;  even  more." 
*' And  to  m3wnicle  Rosamond's,  —  Rosamond  Robi- 
chaux,  on  Bayou  Terrebonne?  " 

"  Fully  as  far,  and  almost  the  same  journey." 
There  was  but  one  thing  to  be  done,  —  crush  Claude 
out  of  her  heart. 

The  storm  had  left  no  wounds  on  Grande  Pointe. 
Every  roof  was  safe,  even  the  old  tobacco-shed  where 
Bonaventure  had  kept  school  before  the  schoolhouse 
was  built.  The  sheltering  curtains  of  deep  forest  had 
broken  the  onset  of  the  wind,  and  the  little  cotton, 
corn,  and  tobacco  fields,  already  harvested,  were 
merely  made  a  little  more  tattered  and  brown.  The 
November  air  was  pure,  sunny,  and  mild,  and  thrilled 
every  now  and  then  with  the  note  of  some  lingering 
bird.  A  green  and  bosky  confusion  still  hid  house 
from  house  and  masked  from  itself  the  all  but  motion- 
less human  life  of  the  sleepy  woods  village.  Only 
an  adventitious  China-tree  here  and  there  had  been 
stripped  of  its  golden  foliage,  and  kept  but  its  ripened 
berries  with  the  red  birds  daiting  and  fluttering  around 
them  like  so  many  hiccoughing  Comanches  about  a 
dramseller's  tent.  And  here,  if  one  must  tell  a  thing 
so  painful,  our  old  friend  the  mocking-bird,  neglecting 
his  faithful  wife  and  letting  his  home  go  to  decay,  kept 
dropping  in,  all  hours  of  tlie  day,  tasting  the  berries' 
rank  pulp,  stimulating,  stimulating,  drowning  care,  you 
know, — "Lost  so  many  children,  and  the  rest  gone 


FATHER   AND   SON.  181 

off  ill  uno-ratcful  foro^etfalness  of  their  old  hard-work- 
ing  father;  j^es ;  "  and  ready  to  sing  or  fight,  just  as 
any  other  creature  happened  not  to  wish  :  and  going 
home  in  the  evening  scohling  and  swaggering,  and 
getting  to  bed  barely  able  to  hang  on  to  the  roost.  It 
would  have  been  bad  enough,  even  for  a  man ;  but  for 
a  bird  —  and  a  mocking-bird  ! 

But  the  storm  wrought  a  great  change  in  one  small 
house  not  in  Grande  Pointe,  yet  of  it.  Until  the  storm, 
ever  since  the  day  St.  Pierre  had  returned  from  the 
little  railway-station  where  Claude  had  taken  the  cars, 
he  had  seemed  as  patiently  resigned  to  the  new  loneli- 
ness of  Bayou  des  Acadiens  as  his  thatched  hut,  which 
day  by  day  sat  so  silent  between  the  edges  of  the  dark 
forest  and  the  darker  stream,  looking  out  beyond  the 
farther  bank,  and  far  over  the  green  waste  of  rushes 
with  its  swarms  of  blackbirds  sweeping  capriciously 
now  this  way  and  now  that,  and  the  phantom  cloud- 
shadows  passing  slowly  across  from  one  far  line  of 
cypress  wood  to  another.  But  since  that  night  when 
the  hut's  solitary  occupant  could  not  sleep  for  the 
winds  and  for  thought  of  Claude,  there  was  a  great 
difference  inside.  And  this  did  not  diminish  ;  it  grew. 
It  is  hard  for  a  man  to  be  both  father  and  mother, 
and  at  the  same  time  be  childless.  The  bonds  of  this 
condition  began  slowly  to  tighten  around  St.  Pierre's 
heart  and  then  to  cut  into  it.  And  so,  the  same  day 
on  which  Claude  in  Vermilionville  left  the  Beausoleils' 
tavern,  the  cabin  on  Bayou  des  Acadiens,  ever  in  his 
mind's  ej'e,  was  empty,  and  in  Grande  Pointe  his 
father  stood  on  the  one  low  step  at  the  closed  door  of 
Bonaventure's  little  frame  schoolhouse. 


182  n  ON  A  VEN  T  URE. 

He  had  been  there  a  full  minute  and  had  not  knocked. 
Every  movement,  to-day,  came  only  after  an  inward 
struggle.  Many  associations  crowded  his  mind  on  this 
doorstep.  Six  years  before,  almost  on  this  spot,  a 
mere  brier-patch  then,  he  and  Maximian  Roussel  had 
risen  from  the  grassy  earth  and  given  the  first  two 
welcoming  hand-grasps  to  the  schoolmaster.  And  now, 
as  one  result,  Claude,  who  did  not  know  his  letters 
then,  was  rising  —  nay,  had  risen  —  to  greatness! 
Claude,  whom  once  he  would  have  been  glad  to 
make  a  good  fisherman  and  swamper,  or  at  the  ut- 
most a  sugar-boiler,  was  now  a  greater,  in  rank  at 
least,  than  the  very  schoolmaster.  Truly  "  knowl- 
edge is  power"  —  alas!  yes;  for  it  had  stolen  away 
that  same  Claude.  The  College  Point  priest's  warning 
had  come  true  :  it  was  ''  good-bj-  to  Grande  Pointe  !  " 
—  Nay,  nay,  it  must  not  be!  Is  that  the  kind  of 
power  education  is?  Power  to  tear  children  from 
their  parents?  Power  to  expose  their  3'ouug  heads  to 
midnight  storms?  Power  to  make  them  eager  to  go, 
and  willing  to  sta^^  fvway,  from  their  paternal  homes? 
Then  indeed  the  priest  had  said  only  too  truh',  that 
these  public  schools  teach  every  thing  except  morals 
and  religion  !  From  the  depth  of  St.  Pierre's  heart 
there  quickl}'  came  a  denial  of  the  charge  ;  and  on  the 
moment,  like  a  chanted  response,  there  fell  upon  his 
listening  ear  a  monotonous  intonation  from  within  the 
door.  A  reading-class  had  begun  its  exercise.  He 
knew  the  words  by  heart,  so  often  had  Claude  and 
he  read  them  together.  He  followed  the  last  stanza 
silently  with  his  own  lips. 


FATHER  AND   SON.  183 

"  Remember,  child,  remember 

Thcat  you  love,  with  all  your  might, 

The  God  who  watches  o'er  us 
And  gives  us  each  delight, 

Who  guards  us  ever  in  the  day, 
And  saves  us  in  the  night." 

Tears  filled  the  swamper's  eyes.  He  moved  as  if  to 
leave  the  place.  But  again  he  paused,  with  one  foot 
half  lowered  to  the  ground.  His  jaws  set,  a  frown 
came  between  his  eyes ;  he  drew  back  the  foot,  turned 
again  to  the  door,  and  gave  a  loud,  peremptory  knock. 

Bonaventure  came  to  the  door.  Anxiety  quickly 
overspread  his  face  as  he  saw  the  gloom  on  St.  Pierre's. 
He  stood  on  the  outer  edge  of  the  sill,  and  drew  the 
door  after  him. 

"I  got  good  news,"  said  St.  Pierre,  with  no 
softening  of  countenance. 

"  Good  news?  " 

"  Yass.  — I  goin'  make  Claude  come  home." 

Bonaventure  could  only  look  at  him  in  amazement. 
St.  Pierre  looked  away  and  continued  : 

"  'S  no  use.  Can't  stand  it  no  longer."  He  turned 
suddenly  upon  the  schoolmaster.  ''"Why  3^ou  di'u' 
tell  me  ed'cation  goin'  teck  my  boj'  'way  from  me?  " 
In  Bonaventure  a  look  of  distressful  self-justification 
quickly  changed  to  one  of  anxious  compassion. 

"  W^ait !  "  he  said.  He  went  back  into  the  school- 
room, leaving  St.  Pierre  in  the  open  door,  and  said : 

"  Dear  chir run,  I  perceive  generally  the  aspects  of 
fatigue.  You  have  been  good  scholars.  I  pronounce 
a  half-hollyday  till  to-morrow  morning.  Come,  each 
and  every  one,  with  lessons  complete." 


184  BONA  VENTURE. 

The  cliildren  dispoi-secl  pcaccabh',  jostling  one  an- 
other to  sliake  the  schoolmaster's  hand  as  the}"  passed 
hhn.  When  they  were  gone  he  put  on  his  coarse  straw 
hat,  and  the  two  men  walked  slowly,  conversing  as 
they  went,  down  the  green  road  that  3'ears  before  had 
fii-st  brought  the  educator  to  Grande  Pointe. 

"Dear  friend,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  "shall  edu- 
cation be  to  l)lamc  for  this  separation?  Is  not  also 
non-education  responsible?  Is  it  not  b\'  tlie  non- 
education  of  Grande  Pointe  that  there  is  nothing  fit 
here  for  Claude's  staying?  " 

"You  stay!  " 

"I?  I  stay?  Ah!  sir,  I  stay,  yes !  Because  like 
Claude,  leaving  my  home  and  seeking  by  wandering 
to  find  the  true  place  of  my  utility,  a  voice  spake  that 
I  come  at  Grande  Pointe.  Behole  me !  as  far  from 
my  childhood  home  as  Claude  from  his.  Friend,  — 
ah  I  friend,  what  shall  I,  —  shall  Claude, — shall  any 
man  do  with  education!  Keep  it?  Like  a  miser  his 
gol'  ?  What  shall  the  ship  do  when  she  is  load'  ?  Dear 
friend," — they  halted  where  another  road  started 
awa}'  through  the  underbrush  at  an  abrupt  angle  on 
their  right,  —  "where  leads  this  narrow  road?  To 
Belle  Alliance  plantation  only,  or  not  also  to  the  whole 
worl'  ?  80  is  education  !  That  road  here  once  fetch 
me  at  Grande  Pointe  ;  the  same  road  fetch  Claude 
away.  Education  came  whispering,  *  Claude  St.  Pierre, 
come!  I  have  constitute'  you  citizen  of  the  worl'. 
Come,  come,  forgetting  self!  '  (3h,  dear  friend,  edu- 
cation is  not  for  self  alone !  Nay,  even  self  is  not  for 
self!" 


FATHER   AND   SON.  185 

*'Well,  den," — the  deep-voiced  woodman  stood 
with  one  boot  on  a  low  stump,  fiercely  trimming  a 
iDranch  that  he  had  struck  from  the  parent  stem  with 
one  blow  of  his  big,  keen  clasp-knife,  —  ^' self  not 
for  self,  —  for  what  he  gone  off  and  lef  me  in  de 
swamp? " 

"Ah,  sir!"  replied  Bonaventure,  "what  do  I  un- 
ceasingly tell  those  dear  school-chil'run?  'May  we 
not  make  the  most  of  self,  yet  not  for  self?'  "  He 
laid  his  hand  upon  St.  Pierre's  shoulder.  "And  who 
sent  Claude  hence  if  not  his  unselfish  father?  " 

"  I  was  big  fool,"  said  St.  Pierre,  whittling  on. 

"  Nay,  wise  !  Discovering  the  great  rule  of  civilize- 
ation.     Every  man  not  for  self,  but  for  every  other !  " 

The  swamper  disclaimed  the  generous  imputation 
with  a  shake  of  the  head. 

"  Naw,  I  dunno  nut'n'  'bout  dat.  I  look  out  for 
me  and  my  boy,  me. — And  beside," — he  abruptly 
threw  away  the  staff  he  had  trimmed,  shut  his  knife 
with  a  snap,  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  —  "  I  dawn't 
see  ed'cation  make  no  diff'ence.  You  say  ed'cation  — 
priest  say  religion  —  me,  I  dawn't  see  neider  one  make 
no  dift"ence.  I  see  every  man  look  out  for  hisself  and 
his  li'l'  crowd.  Not  you,  but" —  He  waved  his 
hand  bitterly  toward  the  world  at  large. 

"Ah,  sir!"  cried  Bonaventure,  "'tis  not  something 
what  you  can  see  all  the  time,  like  the  horns  on  a  cow  ! 
And  yet,  sir, — and  yet!" — he  lifted  himself  upon 
tiptoe  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  thin  hair —  "  the 
education  that  make'  no  difference  is  but  a  dead  body  ! 
and  the  religion  that  make'  no  difference  is  a  ghost ! 


186  BONAVENTURE. 

Bebole  !  behole  two  thing'  in  the  woil',  where  all  is 
giving  and  getting,  two  thing',  conrrary,  yet  resem'- 
ling  !  'Tis  the  left  han'  —  alas,  alas!  —  giving  only 
to  get ;  and  the  right,  blessed  of  God,  getting  only  to 
give  !  How  much  resem'ling,  yet  how  cou^?'ary  !  The 
one  —  han'  of  all  strife;  the  other  —  of  all  peace. 
And  oh !  dear  friend,  there  are  those  who  call  the  one 
civilize-ation,  and  the  other  religion.  Civilize-ation? 
Religion?  They  are  one!  They  are  body  and  soul! 
I  care  not  what  religion  the  priest  teach  you  ;  in  God's 
religion  is  comprise'  the  total  mecanique  of  civilize- 
ation.  We  are  all  in  it ;  you,  me,  Claude,  Sidonie ; 
all  in  it !  Each  and  every  at  his  task,  however  high, 
however  low,  working  not  to  get,  but  to  give,  and  not 
to  give  only  to  his  own  liT  crowd,  but  to  all,  to  all  I  " 
The  speaker  ceased,  for  his  hearer  was  nodding  his 
head  with  sceptical  impatience. 

'' Yass,"  said  the  woodman,  ''yass  ;  but  look,  Bona- 
venture.  Di'u'  you  said  one  time,  '  Knowledge  is 
power'?" 

"  Yes,  truly  ;  and  it  is." 

*'  But  what  use  knowledge  be  power  if  goin'  give 
ev't'in'  away?  " 

Bonavcnture  drew  back  a  step  or  two,  suddenly 
jerked  his  hat  from  his  head,  and  came  forward  again 
with  arms  stretched  wide  and  the  hat  dangling  from 
his  hand.  "Because  —  because  God  will  not  let  it 
sta-a-ay  given  away!  'Give  —  it  shall  be  give'  to 
j'ou.*  Ever}'  thing  given  out  into  God's  worl'  come 
back  to  us  roun'  God's  worl'  !  liesem'liug  the  stirring 
of  water  in  a  bucket.  " 


FATHER  AND  SON.  187 

But  St.  Pierre  frowned.  "  Yass,  — wat'  in  bucket, 
—  yass.  Den  no  man  dawn't  keep  nnt'n'.  Dawn't 
own  nut'n'  he  got." 

"Ah!  sir,  there  is  a  better  owning  than  to  oivn. 
'Tis  giving,  dear  friend;  'tis  giving.  To  get?  To 
have?  That  is  not  to  own.  The  giver,  not  the  getter ; 
the  giver  !  he  is  the  true  owner.  Live  thou  not  to  get, 
but  to  give."  Bonaventure's  voice  trembled  ;  his  eyes 
were  full  of  tears. 

The  swamper  stood  up  with  his  own  eyes  full,  but 
his  voice  was  firm.  "  Bonaventure,  I  don't  got  much. 
I  got  dat  rrr  shanty  on  Bayou  des  Acadiens,  and 
liT  plunder  inside  —  few  kittle',  and  pan', — cast-net, 
fish-line',  two,  free  gun',  and  — my  wife'  grave, 
3^ond'  in  graveyard.  But  I  got  Claude,  —my  boy,  my 
son.  You  t'ink  God  want  me  give  my  son  to  w^hole 
worl'?" 

The  schoolmaster  took  the  woodsman's  brown  wrist 
tenderly  into  both  his  hands,  and  said,  scarce  above  a 
whisper,  "He  gave  His,  first.  He  started  it.  Who 
can  refuse.  He  starting  it?  And  thou  wilt  not  refuse." 
The  voice  rose  —  "I  see,  I  see  the  victory  !  Well  art 
thou  nominated  '  St.  Pierre ! '  for  on  that  rock  of 
giving"  — 

"Naw,  sir!  Stop!"  The  swamper  dashed  the 
moisture  from  his  eyes  and  summoned  a  look  of  stub- 
born resolve.  "Mo'  better  you  call  me  St.  Pierre 
because  I'm  a  fisherman  what  cuss  when  I  git  mad. 
Look !  You  dawn't  want  me  git  Claude  back  in  Gran' 
Point'.  You  want  me  to  give,  give.  Well,  all  right! 
I   goin'    quit   Gran'   Point'   and  give  myself,  me,  to 


188  B  ON  A  VENTUR  E. 

Claude.  I  kin  read,  I  kin  write,  I  I'ink  kin  do  better 
'long  wid  Claude  dan  livin'  all  'lone  wid  snake'  and 
alligator.  I  t'ink  dass  mo'  better  for  ever^^bodj- ;  and 
anjiiow,  I  dawn't  care ;  I  dawn't  give  ni}'  son  to  no- 
body;  I  give  ra3^self  to  Claude." 

Bonaventure  and  his  friend  gazed  into  each  other's 
wet  ej'cs  for  a  moment.  Then  the  schoolmaster  turned, 
lifted  his  eyes  and  one  arm  toward  the  west,  and  ex- 
claimed : 

''Ah,  Claude!  thou  receivcst  the  noblest  gift  in 
Gran'  Point'!" 


CHAPTER   VI. 

CONVERGING    LINES. 


On  the  prairies  of  Vermilion  and  Lafayette,  winter 
is  virtually  over  by  the  first  week  in  February.  From 
sky  to  sky,  each  tree  and  field,  each  plain  and  planta- 
tion grove,  are  putting  on  the  greenery  of  a  Northern 
May.  Even  on  Cote  Gelee  the  housewife  has  per- 
suaded le  vieux  to  lay  aside  his  gun,  and  the  early 
potatoes  are  already  planted.  If  the  moon  be  at  the 
full,  much  ground  is  ready  for  the  sower ;  and  those 
ploughmen  and  pou}'  teams  and  men  working  along 
behind  them  with  big,  clumsy  hoes,  over  in  yonder 
field,  are  planting  corn.  Those  silent,  tremulous 
strands  of  black  that  in  the  morning  sky  come  gliding, 
high  overhead,  from  the  direction  of   the  great  sea- 


CONVERGING   LINES.  189 

marshes  and  fade  into  the  northern  blue,  are  flocks 
that  have  escaped  the  murderous  gun  of  the  pot-hunter. 
Spring  and  Summer  are  driving  these  before  them  as 
the  younger  and  older  sister,  almost  abreast,  come 
laughing,  and  striving  to  outrun  each  other  across  the 
Mexican  Gulf. 

Those  two  travellers  on  horseback,  so  dwarfed  by 
distance,  whom  you  see  approaching  out  of  the  north- 
west, you  shall  presently  find  have  made,  in  their  dress, 
no  provision  against  cold.  At  Carancro,  some  miles 
away  to  the  north-east,  there  is  a  thermometer ;  and 
somewhere  in  Vermilionville,  a  like  distance  to  the 
south-east,  there  might  possibly  be  found  a  barometer ; 
but  there  is  no  need  of  either  to  tell  that  the  air  to-day 
is  threescore  and  ten  and  will  be  more  before  it  is  less. 
Before  the  riders  draw  near  you  have  noticed  that  only 
one  is  a  man  and  the  other  a  woman.  And  now  you 
may  see  that  he  is  sleek  and  alert,  blonde  and  bland, 
and  the  savage  within  us  wants  to  knock  off  his  silk 
hat.  All  the  more  so  for  that  she  is  singularly  pretty 
to  be  met  in  his  sole  care.  The  years  count  on  her 
brows,  it  is  true,  but  the  way  in  which  they  tell  of 
matronhood  —  and  somehow  of  widowhood  too  —  is 
a  very  fair  and  gentle  w^ay.  Her  dress  is  plain,  but 
its  lines  have  a  grace  that  is  also  dignity  ;  and  the  lines 
of  her  face  —  lines  is  too  hard  a  word  for  them  —  are 
not  those  of  time,  but  of  will  and  of  care,  that  have 
chastened  and  refined  one  another.  She  speaks  only 
now  and  then.  Her  companion's  speech  fills  the  wide 
intervals. 

''Yesterday  morning,"  he  says,  "as  I  came  along 


190  B  ON  A  VEN  T  UR  E. 

here  a  little  after  sunrise,  there  was  a  thin  fog  lying 
onl}'  two  or  three  feet  deep,  close  to  the  level  groiuid 
as  far  as  you  could  see,  hidhig  the  whole  prairie,  and 
making  it  look  for  all  the  world  like  a  beautiful  lake, 
with  every  here  and  there  a  green  grove  standing  out 
of  it  like  a  real  little  island." 

She  replies  that  she  used  to  see  it  so  in  her  3'ounger 
days.  The  Acadian  accent  is  in  her  words.  She  hfts 
her  black  eyes,  looks  toward  Carancro,  and  is  silent. 

''  You're  thinking  of  the  changes,"  says  her  escort. 

"  Yass  ;  'tis  so.  Dey  got  twenty  time'  many  field' 
like  had  befo'.  Peop'  don't  raise  cattl'  no  more; 
raise  crop'.     Dey  say  even  dat  land  changiu'." 

*'  How  changing?  " 

'^  I  dunno.  I  diinno  if  'tis  so.  Dey  say  prairie 
risin'  mo'  higher  ever}'  year.  I  dunno  if  'tis  so.  1  t'ink 
dat  land  don't  change  much  ;  but  de  peop',  yass." 

''  vStill,  the  changes  are  mostly  good  changes,"  re- 
sponds the  male  rider.  '•  'Tisn't  the  prairie,  but  the 
people  that  are  rising.  They've  got  the  schoolhouse, 
and  the  English  language,  and  a  free  paid  labor  sys- 
tem, and  the  railroads,  and  painted  wagons,  and  Cin- 
cinnati furniture,  and  sewing-machines,  and  melodeons, 
and  Horsford's  Acid  Phosphate  ;  and  they've  caught 
the  spirit  of  progress  !  " 

"  Yass,  His  so.  Dawn't  see  nobod}'  seem  satisfied 
—  since  de  army  —  since  de  railroad." 

"  Well,  that's  right  enough  ;  they  oughtn't  to  be 
satisfied.  You're  not  satisfied,  are  you?  And  yet 
you've  never  done  so  well  before  as  you  have  this 
season.     I  wish  I  could  say  the  same  for  the  '  Album 


CONVERGING  LINES.  191 

of  Universal  Information  ; '  but  I  can't.  I  tell  3^011 
that,  Madame  Beausoleil ;  I  wouldn't  tell  anybody 
else." 

Zosephine  responds  with  a  dignified  bow.  She  has 
years  ago  noticed  in  herself,  that,  though  she  has 
strength  of  will,  she  lacks  clearness  and  promptness 
of  decision.  She  is  at  a  loss,  now,  to  know  what  to 
do  with  Mr.  Tarbox.  Here  he  is  for  the  seventh  time. 
But  there  is  always  a  plausible  explanation  of  his  pres- 
ence, and  a  person  of  more  tactful  propriety,  it  seems 
to  her,  never  put  his  name  upon  her  tavern  register  or 
himself  into  her  compan3\  She  sees  nothing  shallow 
or  specious  in  his  dazzling  attainments  ;  they  rekindle 
the  old  ambitions  in  her  that  Bonaventure  liglited  ;  and 
although  Mr.  Tarbox's  modest  loveliness  is  not  visible, 
yet  a  certain  fundamental  rectitude,  discernible  behind 
all  his  nebulous  gaudiness,  confirms  her  liking.  Then, 
too,  he  has  earned  her  gratitude.  She  has  inherited 
not  onh'  her  father's  small  fortune,  but  his  thrift  as 
well.  She  can  see  the  sagacity  of  Mr.  Tarbox's  advice 
in  pecuniary  matters,  and  once  and  once  again,  when 
he  has  told  her  quietly  of  some  little  operation  into 
which  he  and  the  ex-governor  —  who  "  thinks  the 
world  of  me,"  he  says  —  were  going  to  dip,  and  she 
has  accepted  his  invitation  to  venture  in  also,  to  the 
extent  of  a  single  thousand  dollars,  the  money  has 
come  back  handsomely  increased.  Even  now,  the  sale 
of  all  her  prairie  lands  to  her  former  kinsmen-in-law, 
which  brought  her  out  here  yesterda}^  and  lets  her 
return  this  morning,  is  made  upon  his  suggestion,  and 
is  so  advantageous,  that  somehow,  she  doesn't  know 


192  B  ON  A  VEN  T  UR  E. 

why,  she  almost  fears  it  isn't  fair  to  the  other  side. 
The  fact  is,  the  coiintr}'  is  passing  from  the  pastoral 
to  the  agricultural  life,  the  prairies  are  being  turned 
into  countless  farms,  and  the  people  are  getting  wealth. 
So  explains  Mr.  Tarl)ox,  whose  happening  to  come 
along  this  morning  bound  in  her  direction  is  pure 
accident  —  pure  accident. 

"No,  tlie  'A.  of  U.  I.'  hasn't  done  its  best,"  he 
says  again.  "  For  one  thing,  I've  had  other  fish  to  fry. 
You  know  that."  He  ventures  a  glance  at  her  e3'es, 
but  they  ignore  it,  and  he  adds,  "  I  mean  other  finan- 
cial matters." 

"  'Tis  so,"  saj^s  Zosephine  ;  and  Mr.  Tarbox  hopes 
the  reason  for  this  faint  repulse  is  only  the  nearness 
of  this  farmhouse  peeping  at  them  through  its  pink 
veil  of  blossoming  peach-trees,  as   they  leisurely  trot 

by. 

"Yes,"  he  says;  "and,  besides,  'Universal  Infor- 
mation '  isn't  what  this  people  want.  The  book's 
too  catholic  for  them." 

"Too  Cat'oleek !  "  Zosephine  raises  her  pretty 
eyebrows  in  grave  astonishment — " 'Cadian'  is  all 
Cat'oleek." 

"  Yes,  yes,  ecclesiastically  speaking,  I  know.  That 
wasn't  my  meaning.  Your  smaller  meaning  puts  my 
larger  one  out  of  sight ;  yes,  just  as  this  Cherokee 
hedge  puts  out  of  sight  the  miles  of  prairie  fields,  and 
even  that  house  we  just  passed.  No,  the  '  A.  of  U.  I.,' 
—  I  love  to  call  it  tliat ;  can  you  guess  why?  "  There 
is  a  venturesome  twinkle  in  his  smile,  and  even  a -play- 
ful permission  in  her  own  as  she  shakes  her  head. 


CONVERGING   LINES.  193 

«'  Well,  I'll  tell  you  ;  it's  because  it  brings  U  and  I 
so  near  together." 

''Hah!"  exclaims  Madame  Beausoleil,  warningly, 
yet  with  sunshine  and  cloud  on  her  brow  at  once. 
She  likes  her  companion's  wit,  always  so  deep,  and 
yet  always  so  delicately  pointed  !  His  hearty  laugh 
just  now  disturbs  her  somewhat,  but  they  are  out  on 
the  wide  plain  again,  without  a  spot  in  all  the  sweep 
of  her  glance  where  an  eye  or  an  ear  may  ambush 
them  or  their  walking  horses. 

"No,"  insists  her  fellow-traveller;  "I  say  again, 
as  I  said  before,  the  '  A.  of  U.  I.'  "  —  he  pauses  at  the 
initials,  and  Zosephine's  faint  smile  gives  him  ecstasy 
—  "  hasn't  done  its  best.  And  yet  it  has  done  beauti- 
fully !  Why,  when  did  3'ou  ever  see  such  a  list  as 
this?  "  He  dexterously  draws  from  an  extensive  inner 
breast-pocket,  such  as  no  coat  but  a  book-agent's  or  a 
shoplifter's  would  be  guilty  of,  a  wide,  limp,  morocco- 
bound  subscription-book.  "Here!"  He  throws  it 
open  upon  the  broad  Texas  pommel.  "Now,  just 
for  curiosity,  look  at  it — oh!  j^ou  can't  see  it  from 
away  off  there,  looking  at  it  sideways!"  He  gives 
her  a  half-reproachful,  half-beseeching  smile  and 
glance,  and  gathers  up  his  dropped  bridle.  They 
come  closer.  Their  two  near  shoulders  approach  each 
other,  the  two  elbows  touch,  and  two  dissimilar  hands 
hold  down  the  leaves.  The  two  horses  playfully  bite 
at  each  other ;  it  is  their  way  of  winking  one  eye. 

"Now,  first,  here's  the  governor's  name;  and  then 
his  son's,  and  his  nephew's,  and  his  other  son's,  and 
his  cousin's.     And  here's  Pierre  Cormeaux,  and  Bap- 


1 94  B  ON  A  VENTURE. 

tiste  Clement,  yon  knou-,  at  Carancro ;  and  here's 
Basilide  Sexnailder,  and  Joseph  Cantrelle,  and  Jacques 
Hebert ;  see?  And  Gaudin,  and  Laprade,  Blouin,  and 
Roussel,  —  old  Christofle  Roussel  of  Beau  Bassin, — 
Duhon,  Roman  and  Simonette  Le  Blanc,  and  Judge 
Landry,  and  Thcriot,  —  Colonel  Theriot,  —  Martin, 
Hubert  again,  Robichaux,  Mouton,  Mouton  again, 
Robichaux  again,  Mouton  —  oh,  I've  got  'em  all  I  — 
Castille,  Beausoleil  —  cousin  of  3-ouis?  Yes,  he  said 
so ;  good  fellow,  thinks  you're  the  greatest  woman 
alive."  The  two  dissimilar  hands,  in  turning  a  leaf, 
touch,  and  the  smaller  one  leaves  the  book.  "And 
here's  Guilbeau,  and  Latiolais,  and  Thibodeaux,  and 
JSoudrie,  and  Arcenaux  —  flowers  of  the  community  — 
'I  gather  them  in,'  —  and  here's  a  page  of  Cote 
Gel^e  people,  and  —  Joe  Jefferson  hadn't  got  back  to 
the  Island  yet,  but  I've  got  his  son  ;  see?  And  here's 
—  can  you  make  out  this  signature?  It's  written  so 
small  "  — 

Both  heads,  —  with  only  the  heavens  and  the  dear 
old  earth-mother  to  see  them,  — both  heads  bend  over 
the  book  ;  the  hand  that  had  retreated  returns,  but 
bethinks  itself  and  withdraws  again  ;  the  eyes  of  Mr. 
Tarbox  look  across  their  corners  at  the  sedate  brow 
so  much  nearer  his  than  ever  it  has  been  before,  until 
that  brow  feels  the  look,  and  slowly  draws  away. 
Look  to  your  mother,  Marguerite  ;  look  to  her !  But 
Marguerite  is  not  there,  not  even  in  Vermilionville  ; 
nor  yet  in  Lafayette  parish  ;  nor  anywhere  throughout 
the  wide  prairies  of  Opelousas  or  Attakapas.  Triumph 
fills  Mr.  Tarbox's  breast. 


CONVERGING   LINES.  195 

"Well,"  he  says,  restoring  the  book  to  its  hiding- 
place,  "seems  like  I  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  that; 
doesn't  it  to  you?  " 

It  does  ;  Zosephine  sa3^s  so.  vShe  sees  the  double 
meaning,  and  Mr.  Tarbox  sees  that  she  sees  it,  but 
must  still  move  cautiously.     So  he  says  : 

"Well,  I'm  not  satisfied.  It's  perfect  as  far  as  it 
goes,  but  don't  expect  me  to  be  satisfied  with  it.  If 
I've  seemed  satisfied,  shall  I  tell  you  why  it  was,  my 
dear  —  friend?  " 

Zosephine  makes  no  reply  ;  but  her  dark  eyes  meet- 
ing his  for  a  moment,  and  then  falling  to  her  horse's 
feet,  seem  to  beg  for  mercy. 

"It's  because,"  says  Mr.  Tarbox,  while  her  heart 
stands  still,  "it's  because  I've  made" — there  is  an 
awful  pause  —  "  more  money  without  the  '  A.  of  U.  I.' 
this  season  than  I've  made  with  it." 

Madame  Beausoleil  catches  her  breath,  shows  relief 
in  ever}'  feature,  lifts  her  eyes  with  sudden  brightness, 
and  exclaims  : 

"  Dass  good!  Dass  mighty  good,  yass !  'Tts 
so." 

"  Yes,  it  is  ;  and  I  tell  3^ou,  and  you  only,  because 
I'm  proud  to  believe  you're  my  sincere  friend.  Am 
1  right?" 

Zosephine  busies  herself  with  her  riding-skirt,  shifts 
her  seat  a  little,  and  with  studied  carelessness  assents. 

"  Yes,"  her  companion  repeats  ;  "■  and  so  I  tell  j'ou. 
The  true  business  man  is  candid  to  all,  communicative 
to  none.  And  yet  I  open  my  heart  to  you.  I  can't 
help  it;  it  won't  stay  shut.     And  you  must  see,  I'm 


196  BONAVENTURE, 

sure  3^011  must,  that  there's  something  more  in  there 
besides  money  ;  don't  you?  "     His  tone  grows  tender. 

Madame  Beausoleil  steals  a  glance  toward  him,  — 
a  grave,  timid  glance.  She  knows  there  is  safety  in 
the  present  moment.  Three  horsemen,  strangers,  far 
across  the  field  in  their  fi'ont,  are  coming  toward  them, 
and  she  feels  an  almost  proprietary  complacence  in  a 
suitor  whom  she  can  safely  trust  to  be  saying  just  the 
right  nothings  when  those  shall  meet  them  and  ride  by. 
She  does  not  speak  ;  but  he  says  : 

'•You   know  there    is,  dear  Jos friend!"      He 

smiles  with  mod.CvSt  sweetness.  "  G.  W.  Tarbox 
dosen't  run  after  money,  and  consequently  he  never 
runs  past  much  without  picking  it  up."  They  both 
laugh  in  decorous  moderation.  The  horsemen  are 
drawing  near;  they  are  Acadians.  "I  admit  I  love 
to  make  money.  But  that's  not  my  chief  pleasure. 
My  chief  pleasure  is  the  study  of  human  nature. 

'  The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man. 


Sole  judge  of  truth,  in  endless  error  hurled, 
The  glory,  jest,  and  riddle  of  the  world.' 

*'  This  season  I've  been  studying  these  Acadian 
people.  And  I  like  them !  They  don't  like  to  be 
reminded  that  they're  Acadians.  Well,  that's  natu- 
ral ;  the  Creoles  used  to  lord  it  over  them  so  when  the 
Creoles  were  slave-holding  planters  and  they  were 
small  farmers.  That's  about  past  now.  The  Aca- 
dians are  descended  from  peasants,  that's  true,  wliile 
some  Creoles  are  from  the  French  nobilit}'.  But, 
hooh  !  wouldn't  any  fair-minded  person  "  — the  horse- 


CONVERGING   LINES.  197 

men  are  within  eartshot ;  they  are  staring  at  the  silk 
hat —  "  Adjieu." 

"Adjieu."     They  pass. 

" — "Wouldn't  any  fair-minded  person  that  knows 
what  France  was  two  or  three  hundred  years  ago  — 
show  you  some  day  in  the  '  Album  '  —  about  as  lief  be 
descended  from  a  good  deal  of  that  peasantry  as  from 
a  good  deal  of  that  nobility  ?  I  should  smile  !  Why, 
my  dear  —  friend,  the  day's  coming  when  the  Acadians 
will  be  counted  as  good  French  blood  as  there  is  in 
Louisiana !  They're  the  only  white  people  that  ever 
trod  this  continent  —  island  or  mainland  —  who  never 
on  their  own  account  oppressed  anybody.  Some  little 
depredation  on  their  British  neighbors,  out  of  dogged 
faithfulness  to  their  king  and  church,  —  that's  the 
worst  charge  you  can  make.  Look  at  their  history ! 
all  poetry  and  pathos  !  Look  at  their  character  !  brave, 
peaceable,  loyal,  industrious,  home-loving"  — 

But  Zosephine  was  looking  at  the  speaker.  Her 
face  is  kindled  with  the  inspiration  of  his  praise.  His 
own  eyes  grow  ardent. 

"  Look  at  their  women!  Ah,  Josephine,  I'm  look- 
ing at  one  !     Don't  turn  away. 

—  '  One  made  up 
Of  loveliness  alone  ; 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 
The  seeming  paragon.' 

*  The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 
A  perfect  woman  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command.' 


198  BONAVENTURE. 

"You  cau't  stop  me,  Josephine;  it's  got  to  come, 
and  come  right  now.  I'm  ii  homeless  man,  Josephine, 
tired  of  wandering,  with  a  heart  bigger  and  weaker 
than  I  ever  thought  I  had.  I  want  you  !  I  love  3'ou  ! 
I've  never  loved  anybod}'  before  in  my  life  except 
myself,  and  I  don't  find  myself  as  lovely  as  I  used. 
Oh,  take  me,  Josephine !  I  don't  ask  yon  to  love  as  if 
you'd  never  loved  another.  I'll  take  what's  left,  and 
be  perfectly  satisfied  !  I  know  you're  ambitious,  and 
I  love  you  for  that !  But  I  do  think  I  can  give  you  a 
larger  life.  With  you  for  a  wife,  I  believe  I  could  be 
a  man  3'ou  needn't  be  ashamed  of.  I'm  already  at  the 
head  of  my  line.  Best  record  in  the  United  States, 
Josephine,  whether  by  the  day,  week,  month,  year, 
or  locality.  But  if  you  don't  like  the  line,  I'll  throw 
up  the  '  A.  of  U.  I.'  and  go  into  any  thing  you  say; 
for  I  want  to  lift  you  higher,  Josephine.  You're  above 
me  already,  by  nature  and  by  rights,  but  I  can  lift  you, 
I  know  I  can.  You've  got  no  business  keeping  tavern  ; 
3'ou're  one  of  Nature's  aristocrats.  Yes,  you  are  !  and 
you're  too  3'oung  and  lovely  to  stay  a  widow  —  in  a 
State  where  there's  more  men  than  there's  women. 
There's  a  good  deal  of  the  hill  yet  to  climb  before  you 
start  down.  Oh,  let's  climb  it  together,  Josephine  ! 
I'll  make  you  happier  than  you  are,  Josephine ;  I 
haven't  got  a  bad  habit  left ;  such  as  I  had,  I've  quit ; 
it  don't  pay.  I  don't  drink,  chew,  smoke,  tell  lies, 
swear,  quarrel,  play  cards,  make  debts,  nor  belong  to 
a  club  —  be  my  wife  !  Your  daughter  '11  soon  be  leav- 
ing 3^ou.  You  can't  be  happy  alone.  Take  me  I  take 
me  !  "     He  ursres  his  horse  close  —  her  face  is  averted 


CONVERGING  LINES.  199 

—  and  lays  his  hand  softly  but  firmly  on  her  two,  rest- 
ing folded  on  the  saddle-horn.  They  struggle  faintly 
and  are  still ;  but  she  slowly  shakes  her  hanging  head. 

''  O  Josephine  !  you  don't  mean  no,  do  3'ou?  Look 
this  way  !  ^^ou  don't  mean  no?  "  He  presses  his  hand 
passionately  down  upon  hers.  Her  eyes  do  not  turn 
to  his  ;  but  they  are  lifted  tearfully  to  the  vast,  un- 
auswering  sky,  and  as  she  mournfully  shakes  her  head 
again,  she  cries,  — 

"I  dunno  !  I  dunno !  I  can't  tell!  I  got  to  see 
Marguerite." 

"  AVell,  you'll  see  her  in  an  hour,  and  if  she  "  — 

'' Naw,  naw !  'tis  not  so;  Marguerite  is  in  New 
Orleans  since  Christmas." 

Very  late  in  the  evening  of  that  day  Mr.  Tarbox 
entered  the  principal  inn  of  St.  Martinville,  on  the 
Teche.  He  wore  an  air  of  blitheness  which,  though 
silent,  was  overdone.  As  he  pushed  his  silk  hat  back 
on  his  head,  and  registered  his  name  with  a  more  than 
usual  largeness  of  hand,  he  remarked  : 

"  '  Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Nor  wants  that  little  long.' 

"  Give  me  a  short  piece  of  candle  and  a  stumpy 
candlestick  —  and 

'  Take  me  up,  and  bear  me  hence 
Into  some  other  chamber'  "  — 

"Glad  to  see  you  back,  Mr.  Tarbox,"  responded 
the  host ;  and  as  his  guest  received  the  candle  and 
heard  the  number  of  his  room,  —  ''books  must  'a' 
went  well  this  fine  day." 


200  BONAVENTUBE. 

Mr.  Tarbox  fixed  him  with  bis  eye,  drew  a  soft  step 
closer,  said  iu  a  low  toue  : 

*'  '  My  only  books 

AVere  woman's  looks, 
And  folly's  all  they've  taught  me.'  " 

The  landlord  raised  his  eyebrows,  rounded  his  mouth, 
and  darted  out  his  tongue.  The  guest  shifted  the 
candle  to  his  left  hand,  laid  his  right  softly  upon  the 
host's  arm,  and  murmured  : 

*'List!  Are  we  alone?  If  I  tell  thee  something, 
wilt  thou  tell  it  never?  " 

The  landlord  smiled  eagerly,  shook  his  head,  and 
bent  toward  his  speaker. 

'^Friend  Perkins,"  said  Mr.  Tarbox,  in  muffled 
voice  — 

"  '  So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave,  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  that  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams.' 

"Don't  let  the  newspapers  get  hold  of  it  —  good- 
night." 

But  it  was  only  at  daj'break  that  Mr.  Tarbox  dis- 
ordered the  drapery  of  his  couch  to  make  believe  he 
had  slept  there,  and  at  sunrise  he  was  gone  to  find 
Claude. 


'THANASE'S   VIOLIN,  201 

CHAPTER   VII. 
'thanase's  violin. 

Had  Marguerite  gone  to  New  Orleans  the  better  to 
crush  Claude  out  of  her  heart?  No,  no !  Her  mother 
gave  an  explanation  interesting  and  reasonable  enough, 
and  at  the  same  time  less  uncomfortably  romantic. 
Marguerite  had  gone  to  the  city  to  pursue  studies 
taught  better  there  than  in  Opelousas ;  especially 
music. 

Back  of  this  was  a  reason  which  she  had  her 
mother's  promise  not  to  mention,  —  the  physician's 
recommendation  —  a  change  of  scene.  He  spoke  of 
slight  malarial  influences,  and  how  many  odd  forms 
they  took  ;  of  dyspepsia  and  its  queer  freaks  ;  of  the 
confining  nature  of  house  cares,  and  of  how  often  they 
"ran  down  the  whole  system."  His  phrases  were 
French,  but  they  had  all  the  weary  triteness  of  these ; 
while  Marguerite  rejoiced  that  he  did  not  sus^^ect  the 
real  ailment,  and  Zosephine  saw  that  he  divined  it 
perfectly. 

A  chanoje  of  scene.  Marsjuerite  had  treated  the 
suggestion  lightly,  as  something  amusingly  out  of 
proportion  to  her  trivial  disorder,  but  took  pains  not 
to  reject  it.  Zosephine  had  received  it  with  troubled 
assent,  and  mentioned  the  small  sugar-farm  and 
orangery  of  the  kinsman  Robichaux,  down  on  Baj-ou 
Terrebonne.  But  the  physician  said,  "  If  that  would 
not  be  too  dull;"  mentioned,  casually,  the  city,  and 


202  BONAVENTURE. 

saw  Marguerite  lighten  up  eagerly.  Tlie  city  was 
chosen  ;  the  ph3-sician's  sister,  living  there,  would  see 
Marguerite  comfortably  established.  All  was  pres- 
ently arranged. 

"  And  you  can  take  your  violin  with  you,  and  study 
music,"  he  said.  Marguerite  had  one,  and  played  it 
with  a  taste  and  skill  that  knew  no  competitor  in  all 
the  surrounding  region. 

It  had  belonged  to  her  father.  Before  she  was 
born,  all  Lafayette  parish  had  known  it  tenderly. 
Before  she  could  talk  she  had  danced  —  courtesied 
and  turned,  tiptoed  and  fallen  and  risen  again,  latter 
end  first,  to  the  gaj'  strains  he  had  loved  to  wring  from 
it.  Before  it  seemed  safe,  for  the  instrument,  to  trust 
it  in  her  hands,  she  had  learned  to  draw  its  bow  ;  and 
for  years,  now,  there  had  been  no  resident  within  the 
parish  who  could  not  have  been  her  scholar  better  than 
to  be  her  teacher. 

When  Claude  came,  she  had  shut  the  violin  in  its 
case,  and  left  the  poor  thing  hidden  away,  despising 
its  powers  to  charm,  lost  in  self-contempt,  and  help- 
less under  the  spell  of  a  chaste  passion's  first  enchant- 
ment. When  he  went,  she  still  forgot  the  instrument 
for  many  da3's.  She  returned  with  more  than  dutiful 
energy  to  her  full  part  in  the  household  cares,  and 
gave  every  waking  hour  not  so  filled  to  fierce  study. 
If  she  could  not  follow  him  —  if  a  true  maiden  must 
wait  upon  faith  —  at  least  she  would  be  ready  if  fate 
should  ever  bring  him  back. 

But  one  night,  when  she  had  conned  her  simple 
books  until  the  words  ran  all  together  on  the   page, 


'TIIANASE'S   VIOLIN.  203 

some  good  angel  whispered,  "  The  violin  !  "  She  took 
it  and  played.  The  music  was  but  a  song,  but  from 
some  master  of  song.  She  played  it,  it  may  be,  not 
after  the  best  rules,  yet  as  one  may  play  who,  after 
life's  first  great  billow  has  gone  over  him,  smites  again 
his  forgotten  instrument.  With  tears,  of  all  emotions 
mingled,  starting  from  her  eyes,  and  the  bow  trembling 
on  the  strings,  she  told  the  violin  her  love.  And  it 
answered  her : 

"  Be  strong !  be  strong !  you  shall  not  love  for 
naught.  He  shall — he  shall  come  back  —  he  shall 
come  back  and  lead  us  into  joy."  From  that  time 
the  violin  had  more  employment  than  ever  before  in 
all  its  days. 

So  it  and  Marguerite  were  gone  away  to  the  great 
strange  city  together.  The  loneliness  the}''  left  be- 
hind was  a  sad  burden  to  Zosephine.  No  other  one 
thing  had  had  so  much  influence  to  make  so  nearly 
vulnerable  the  defences  of  her  heart  when  Mr.  Tarbox 
essayed  to  storm  them.  On  the  night  following  that 
event,  the  same  that  he  had  spent  so  sleeplessly  in 
St.  Martinville,  she  wrote  a  letter  to  Marguerite, 
which,  though  intended  to  have  just  the  opposite 
effect,  made  the  daughter  feel  that  this  being  in  New 
Orleans,  and  all  the  matter  connected  with  it,  were 
one  unmixed  mass  of  utter  selfishness.  The  very 
written  words  that  charged  her  to  stay  on  seemed 
to  say,  '^Corae  home!  "  Her  strong  little  mother! 
always  quiet  and  grave,  it  is  true,  and  sometimes 
sad;  yet  so  well  poised,  so  concentrated,  so  equal  to 
every  passing  day  and  hour  !  —  she  to  seem  —  in  this 


204  B  ON  A  VEN  T  URE. 

Tetter  —  far  out  of  her  course,  adrift,  and  mutely  and 
dimly  signalling  for  aid  I  The  daughter  read  the  pages 
again  and  again.  What  could  they  mean  ?  Here,  for 
instance,  this  line  about  the  mother's  coming  herself 
to  the  city,  if,  and  if,  and  if ! 

The  letter  found  Marguerite  in  the  bosom  of  a  fam- 
ily that  dwelt  in  the  old  Rue  Bourbon,  only  a  short 
way  below  Canal  Street,  the  city's  centre.  The  house 
stands  on  the  street,  its  drawing-room  windows  open- 
ing upon  the  sidewalk,  and  a  narrow  balcony  on  the 
story  above  shading  them  scantily  at  noon.  A  garden 
on  the  side  is  visible  from  the  street  through  a  lofty, 
black,  wrought-iron  fence.  Of  the  details  within  the 
enclosure,  I  remember  best  the  vines  climbing  the  walls 
of  the  tall  buildings  that  shut  it  in,  and  the  urns  and 
vases,  and  the  evergreen  foliage  of  the  Japan  plum- 
trees.  A  little  way  off,  and  across  the  street,  was  the 
pleasant  restaurant  and  salesroom  of  the  Christian 
AVomen's  Exchange. 

The  family  spoke  English.  Indeed,  they  spoke  it 
a  great  deal ;  and  P'rench  —  also  a  great  deal.  The 
younger  generation,  two  daughters  and  a  son,  went 
much  into  societ3\  Their  name  was  that  of  an  ancient 
French  noble  house,  with  which,  in  fact,  tliey  had  no 
connection.  Tliey  took  great  pains  to  call  themselves 
Creoles,  though  tho}^  knew  well  enough  they  were 
Acadians.  The  Acadian  caterpillar  often  turns  into 
a  Creole  butterfly.  Their  great-grandfather,  one  of 
the  children  of  the  Nova-Scotian  deportation,  had  been 
a  tobacco-farmer  on  the  old  Cote  Acadien  in  St.  John 
the  Baptist  parish.      Lake  des  Allemands  lay  there, 


'THAN  A  SB'S   VIOLIN,  205 

just  behind  him.  lu  1815,  his  son,  their  grandfather, 
in  an  excursion  through  the  hike  and  bayou  beyond, 
discovered,  far  south-eastward  in  the  midst  of  the 
Grande  Prairie  des  Allemauds,  a  "  pointe  "  of  several 
hundred  acres  extent.  Here,  with  one  or  two  others, 
he  founded  the  Acadian  settlement  of  *'  La  Vacherie,'* 
and  began  to  build  a  modest  fortune.  The  blood  was 
good,  even  though  it  was  not  the  blood  of  ancient  rob- 
bers ;  and  the  son  in  the  next  generation  found  his 
way,  by  natural  and  eas}"  stages,  through  Barataria 
and  into  the  city,  and  became  the  ''  merchant"  of  his 
many  sugar  and  rice  planting  kinsmen  and  neighbors. 

It  was  a  great  favor  to  Marguerite  to  be  taken  into 
such  a  housahold  as  this.  She  felt  it  so.  The  house- 
hold felt  it  so.  Yet  almost  from  the  start  they  began 
to  play  her,  in  their  social  world,  as  their  best  card  — 
w^hen  they  could.  She  had  her  hours  of  school  and  of 
home  stud}' ;  also  her  music,  both  lessons  and  prac- 
tice ;  was  in  earnest  both  as  to  books  and  violin,  and 
had  teachers  who  also  were  in  earnest ;  and  so  she 
found  little  time  for  social  revels.  Almost  all  sociality 
is  revel  in  New-Orleans  society,  and  especially  in  the 
society  she  met. 

But  when  she  did  appear,  somehow  she  shone.  A 
native-  instinct  in  dress,  —  even  more  of  it  than  her 
mother  had  at  the  same  age,  — and  in  manners  and 
speech,  left  only  so  little  rusticity  as  became  itself  a 
charm  rather  than  a  blemish,  suggested  the  sugar-cane 
fields ;  the  orange-grove ;  the  plantation-house,  with 
pillared  porch,  half -hidden  in  tall  magnolias  and  lau- 
restines  and  bushes  of  red  and  white  camellias  higher 


206  BONAVENTURE. 

and  wider  than  arms  can  reach,  and  covered  with  their 
regal  flowers  from  the  ground  to  their  tops  ;  and  the 
bayou  front  lined  with  moss-draped  live-oaks,  their 
noonday  shadows  a  hundred  feet  across.  About  her 
there  was  not  the  faintest  hint  of  the  country  tavern. 
She  was  but  in  her  seventeenth  year ;  but  on  her 
native  prairies,  where  girls  are  women  at  fourteen, 
seventeen  w^as  almost  an  advanced  stage  of  decay. 
She  seemed  full  nineteen,  and  a  very  well-equipped 
nineteen  as  social  equipments  went  in  the  circle  she 
had  entered.  Being  a  schoolgirl  was  no  drawback ; 
there  are  ^w  New-Orleans  circles  where  it  is  ;  and 
especially  not  in  her  case,  for  she  needed  neither  to 
titter  nor  chatter,  —  she  could  talk.  And  then,  her 
violin  made  victory  always  easy  and  certain. 

Sometimes  the  company  was  largely  of  down-town 
Creoles;  sometimes  of  up-town  people, — "Ameri- 
cans;" and  often  equally-  of  the  two  sorts,  talking 
French  and  English  in  most  amusing  and  pleasing 
confusion.  For  the  father  of  the  family  had  lately 
been  made  president  of  a  small  bank,  and  was  fairly 
boxing  the  social  compass  in  search  of  depositors. 
Marguerite  had  not  3'et  discovered  that  —  if  we  may 
drag  the  metaphor  ashore  —  to  enter  society  is  not  to 
emerge  upon  an  unbroken  table-land,  or  that  she  was 
not  on  its  highest  plateau.  She  noticed  the  frequency 
with  which  she  encountered  unaccomplished  fathers, 
stupid  mothers,  rude  sons  and  daughters,  and  ill-dis- 
tributed personal  regard  ;  but  she  had  the  common- 
sense  not  to  expect  more  of  society  than  its  nature 
warrants,  guessed  rigiitly  that  she  would  find  the  same 


'TTIANASE'S   VIOLIN.  207 

thing  an}^ where  else,  and  could  not  know  that  these 
elements  were  less  mixed  with  better  here  than  in  many 
other  of  the  city's  circles,  of  whose  existence  she  had 
not  even  heard.     However  : 

Society,  at  its  very  best,  alwa3's  needs,  and  at  its 
best  or  worst  always  contains,  a  few  superior  members, 
who  make  themselves  a  blessing  by  working  a  con- 
stant, tactful  redistribution  of  individuals  by  their  true 
values,  across  the  unworthy  lines  upon  which  society 
ever  tends  to  stratify.  Such  a  person,  a  matron,  sat 
with  Marguerite  one  April  evening  under  a  Chinese 
lantern  in  the  wide,  curtained  veranda  of  an  Esplanade- 
street  house  whose  drawing-room  and  Spanish  garden 
were  filled  with  company. 

Marguerite  was  secretly  cast  down.  This  lady  had 
brought  her  here,  having  met  her  but  a  fortnight  before 
and  chosen  her  at  once,  in  her  own  private  counsels, 
for  social  promotion.  And  Marguerite  had  played  the 
violin.  In  her  four  months'  advanced  training  she 
had  accomplished  wonders.  Her  German  professor 
made  the  statement,  while  he  warned  her  against  en- 
thusiastic drawing-room  flatter3^  This  evening  she 
had  gotten  much  praise  and  thanks.  Yet  these  had  a 
certain  discriminative  moderation  that  was  new  to  her 
ear,  and  confirmed  to  her,  not  in  the  pleasantest  way, 
the  realization  that  this  company  was  of  higher  aver- 
age intelligence  and  refinement  than  any  she  had  met 
before.  She  little  guessed  that  the  best  impression  she 
had  ever  made  she  made  here  to-night. 

Of  course  it  was  not  merely  on  account  of  the  violin. 
She  had  beauty,  not  onl}'  of  face  and  head,  but  of 


208  B  ON  A  YEN  T  UR  E. 

form  and  carriage.  So  that  when  she  stood  with  her 
instrument,  turning,  as  it  were,  every  breatli  of  air 
into  music,  and  the  growing  volume  of  the  strains 
called  forth  all  her  good  Acadian  strength  of  arms 
and  hand,  she  charmed  not  merely  the  listening  ear, 
but  the  e^^e,  the  reason,  and  the  imagination  in  its 
freest  range. 

But,  indeed,  it  was  not  the  limitations  of  her  social 
triumphs  themselves  that  troubled  her.  Every  expe- 
rience of  the  evening  had  helped  to  show  her  how  much 
wider  the  world  was  than  she  had  dreamed,  and  had 
opened  new  distances  on  the  right,  on  the  left,  and  far 
ahead ;  and  nowhere  in  them  all  could  eye  see,  or  ear 
hear,  aught  of  that  one  without  whom  to  go  back  to 
old  things  was  misery-,  and  to  go  on  to  new  was  mere 
weariness.  And  the  dear  little  mother  at  home !  — 
worth  nine  out  of  any  ten  of  all  this  crowd  —  still  at 
home  in  that  old  tavern-keeping  life,  now  intolerable 
to  think  of,  and  still  writing  those  3'earniug  letters  that 
bade  the  daughter  not  return  I  No  wonder  ISIargue- 
rite's  friend  had  divined  her  feelings,  and  drawn  her 
out  to  the  cool  retreat  under  the  shadow  of  the  veranda 
lanterns. 

A  gentleman  joined  them,  who  had  "  just  come," 
he  said.  Marguerite's  companion  and  he  were  old 
friends.  Neither  he  nor  Marguerite  heard  each  other's 
name,  nor  could  see  each  other's  face  more  than  dimly. 
He  was  old  enough  to  be  twitted  for  bachelorhood,  and 
to  lay  the  blame  upon  an  out-door  and  out-of-town 
profession.  Such  words  drew  Marguerite's  silent  but 
close  attention. 


'THAXASE'S    VIOLIN.  209 

The  talk  turned  easily  from  this  to  the  ease  with 
which  the  fair  sex,  as  compared  with  the  other,  takes 
on  the  graces  of  the  drawing-room.  *•  Especially,'* 
the  two  older  ones  agreed,  ''  if  the  previous  lack  is 
due  merely  to  outv>-ard  circumstances."  But  Margue- 
rite was  still.  Here  was  a  new  thought.  One  who 
attained  ail  those  graces  and  love's  prize  also  might 
at  last,  for  love's  sake,  have  to  count  them  but  dross, 
or  carry  them  into  retirement,  the  only  trophies  of 
abandoned  triumphs.  While  she  thought,  the  conver- 
sation went  on. 

"  Yes,"  said  her  friend,  replying  to  the  bachelor, 
'•we  acquire  drawing-room  graces  more  easily;  but 
why?  Because  most  of  us  think  we  must.  A  man 
may  find  success  in  one  direction  or  another ;  but  a 
woman  has  got  to  be  a  social  success,  or  she's  a  com- 
plete failure.  She  can't  snap  her  fingers  at  the 
drawing-room." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Marguerite,  "she  can  if  she 
want!"  She  felt  the  strength  to  rise  that  moment 
and  go  back  to  Opelousas,  if  only  —  and  did  not  see, 
until  her  companions  laughed  straight  at  her,  that  the 
lady  had  spoken  in  jest. 

"  Still,"  said  the  bachelor,  "  the  drawing-room  is 
woman's  element  —  realm  —  rather  than  man's,  what- 
ever the  reasons  may  be.  I  had  a  young  man  with  me 
last  winter  "  — 

"  I  knew  it  I  "  thought  Marguerite. 

"  —  until  lately,  in  fact ;  he's  here  in  town  now,  — 
whom  I  have  tried  once  or  twice  to  decoy  into  com- 
pany in  a  small  experimental  way.     It's  harder  than 


210  B  OXA  VENTURE. 

putting  a  horse  into  a  sliip.  He  seems  not  to  know 
what  social  interchange  is  for." 

"  Thinks  it's  for  intellectual  profit  and  pleasure," 
interrupted  the  ironical  lad}'. 

"  No,  he  just  doesn't  see  the  use  or  fun  of  it.  And 
yet,  really,  that's  his  only  deficiency.  True,  he  listens 
better  than  he  talks  —  overdoes  it;  but  when  a  cliap 
has  youth,  intelligence,  native  refinement,  integrity, 
and  good  looks,  as  far  above  the  mean  level  as  many 
of  our  society  fellows  are  below  it,  it  seems  to  me  he 
ought  to  be  "  — 

^'Utilized,"  suggested  the  lady,  casting  her  e3'es 
toward  Marguerite  and  withdrawing  them  as  quickly, 
amused  at  the  earnestness  of  her  attention. 

"Yes,"  said  the  bachelor,  and  mused  a  moment. 
*'  He's  a  talented  fellow.  It's  only  a  few  months  ago 
that  he  really  began  life.  Now  he's  outgrown  my 
service." 

"  Left  the  nest,"  said  the  lad}-. 

"  Yes,  indeed.     He  has  invented  " — 

"Oh,  dear!  " 

The  bachelor  was  teased.  *'  Ah  !  come,  now  ;  show 
your  usual  kindness  ;  he  has,  really,  made  a  simple, 
modest  agricultural  machine  that  —  meets  a  want  long 
felt.  Oh  !  you  may  laugli ;  but  he  laughs  last.  He 
has  not  only  a  patent  for  it,  but  a  good  sale  also,  and 
is  looking  around  for  other  worlds  to  conquer." 

"  And  yet  spurns  society?     Ours  !  " 

"  No,  simply  develops  no  aflinity  for  it ;  would  like 
to,  if  only  to  please  me  ;  but  can't.  Doesn't  even 
make  intimate  companions  among  men  ;  simpl}^  clings 


'THANASE'S    VIOL IX.  211 

to  his  fond,  lone  father,  and  the  lone  father  to  him, 
closer  than  any  pair  of  twin  orphan  girls  that  ever  you 
saw.  I  don't  believe  any  tMng  in  life  could  divide 
them." 

"Ah,  don't  3^ou  trust  him!  Man  proposes,  Cupid 
disposes.  A  girl  will  stick  to  her  mother  ;  but  a  man  ? 
Wh}',  the  least  thing  —  a  pair  of  blue  eyes,  a  yellow 
curl"  — 

The  baclielor  gayly  shook  his  head,  and,  leaning  over 
with  an  air  of  secrecy,  said  :  "  A  pair  of  blue  eyes  have 
shot  him  through  and  through,  and  a  yellow  curl  is 
wound  all  round  him  from  head  to  heel,  and  yet  he 
sticks  to  his  father." 

"  He  can't  live,"  said  the  lady.  Marguerite's  hand 
pressed  her  arm,  and  they  rose.  As  the  bachelor  drew 
the  light  curtain  of  a  long  window  aside,  that  they 
might  pass  in,  the  light  fell  upon  Marguerite's  face. 
It  was  entirely  new  to  him.  It  seemed  calm.  Yet  in- 
stantly the  question  smote  him,  "  What  have  I  done? 
what  have  I  said?"  She  passed,  and  turned  to  give 
a  parting  bow.  The  light  fell  upon  him.  She  was 
right ;  it  was  Claude's  friend,  the  engineer. 

When  he  came  looking  for  them  a  few  minutes  later, 
he  only  caught,  by  chance,  a  glimpse  of  them,  clouded 
in  light  wraps  and  passing  to  their  carriage.  It  was 
not  yet  twelve. 

Between  Marguerite's  chamber  and  that  of  one  of 
the  daughters  of  the  family  there  was  a  door  that 
neither  one  ever  fastened.  Somewhere  down-stairs  a 
clock  was  striking  three  in  the  morning,  when  this 
door  softly  opened  and  the  daughter  stole  into  Mar- 


212  BONA  VEN TURK. 

guerite's  room  in  her  night-robe.  AVith  her  hair  fall- 
ing about  her,  her  bauds  unconsciously  clasped,  her 
eyes  starting,  and  an  outcry  of  amazement  checked 
just  within  her  open,  rounded  moutli,  she  stopped  and 
stood  an  instant  in  the  brightly  lighted  chamber. 

Marguerite  sat  on  the  bedside  exactly  as  she  had 
come  from  the  carriage,  save  that  a  white  gossamer 
web  had  dropped  from  her  head  and  shoulders,  and 
lay  coiled  about  her  waist.  Her  tearless  eyes  were 
wide  and  filled  with  painful  meditation,  even  when  she 
turned  to  the  alarmed  and  astonished  girl  before  her. 
With  suppressed  exclamations  of  wonder  and  pity  the 
girl  glided  forward,  cast  her  arms  about  the  sitting 
figure,  and  pleaded  for  explanation. 

"It  is  a  headache,"  said  Marguerite,  kindly  but 
firmly  lifting  away  the  intwining  arms. —  "No,  no, 
you  can  do  nothing.  — It  is  a  headache.  — Yes,  I  will 
go  to  bed  presentl}' ;  you  go  to  yours.  —  No,  no  "  — 

The  night-robed  girl  looked  for  a  moment  more  into 
Marguerite's  eyes,  then  sank  to  her  knees,  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  wept.  Marguerite  laid  her 
hands  upon  the  bowed  head  and  looked  down  with  dry 
eyes.  "  No,"  she  presently  said  again,  "  it  is  a  head- 
ache. Go  back  to  your  bed.  —  No,  there  is  nothing 
to  tell ;  onl}'  I  have  been  very,  very  foolisli  and  very, 
very  selfish,  and  I  am  going  home  to-morrow.  Good- 
night." 

Tlie  door  closed  softly  between  the  two.  Then  Mar- 
guerite sank  slowly  back  upon  the  bed,  closed  her  eyes, 
and  rocking  her  head  from  side  to  side,  said  again  and 
again,  in  moans  that  scarcely  left  the  lips  : 


THE   tiUAKING   PRAIRIE.  213 

"  M}'  mother!  1113'  mother!  Take  me  back!  Oh! 
take  me  back,  my  mother  !  m}^  mother  !  " 

At  length  she  arose,  put  off  her  attire,  lay  down  to 
rest,  and,  even  while  she  was  charging  sleep  with  being 
a  thousand  leagues  away — slept. 

When  she  awoke,  the  wide,  bright  morning  filled  all 
the  room.  Had  some  sound  wakened  her?  Yes,  a 
soft  tapping  came  again  upon  her  door.  She  lay  still. 
It  sounded  once  more.  For  all  its  softness,  it  seemed 
nervous  and  eager.     A  low  voice  came  with  it : 

"  Marguerite  !  " 

She  sprang  from  her  pillow.  —  "Yes  !  " 

While  she  answered,  it  came  again,  — 

"  Marguerite !  " 

With  a  low  cry,  she  cast  away  the  bed-coverings, 
threw  back  the  white  mosquito-curtain  and  the  dark 
masses  of  her  hair,  and  started  up,  lifted  and  opened 
her  arms,  cried  again,  but  with  joy,  "  My  mother !  my 
mother !  "  and  clasped  Zosephine  to  her  bosom. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 


THE    SHAKING    TRAIRIE. 


Manifestly  it  was  a  generous  overstatement  for 
Claude's  professional  friend  to  say  that  Claude  had 
outgrown  his  service.  It  was  true  only  that  by  and  by 
there  had  come  a  juncture  in  his  affairs  where  he  could 
not,  without   injustice   to    others,    make    a    place    for 


214  BONAVENTUIiE. 

Claude  wliicli  lie  could  advise  Claude  to  accept,  and 
they  bad  parted  with  the  mutual  hope  that  the  separa- 
tion would  be  transient.  But  the  surveyor  could  not 
but  say  to  himself  that  such  incidents,  happening 
while  we  are  still  young,  are  apt  to  be  turning-points 
in  our  lives,  if  our  lives  are  going  to  have  direction 
and  movement  of  their  own  at  all. 

St.  Pierre  had  belted  his  earnings  about  him  under 
the  woollen  sash  that  always  bound  his  waist,  shoul- 
dered his  rifle,  taken  one  last,  silent  look  at  the  cabin 
on  Bayou  des  Acadiens,  stood  for  a  few  moments 
with  his  hand  in  Bonaventure's  above  one  green  mound 
in  the  churchyard  at  Grande  Pointe,  given  it  into  the 
schoolmaster's  care,  and  had  gone  to  join  his  son.  Of 
course,  not  as  an  idler ;  such  a  perfect  woodsman 
easily  made  himself  necessary  to  the  engineer's  party. 
The  company  were  sorry  enough  to  lose  him  when 
Claude  went  away  ;  but  no  temptation  that  they  could 
invent  could  stay  him  from  following  Claude.  Father 
and  son  went  in  one  direction,  and  the  camp  in  another. 

I  must  confess  to  being  somewhat  vague  as  to  just 
where  they  were.  I  should  have  to  speak  from  mem- 
ory, and  I  must  not  make  another  slip  in  topograph3\ 
The  changes  men  have  made  in  Southern  Louisiana 
these  last  few  years  are  great.  I  sa}-  nothing,  again,  of 
the  vast  widths  of  prairie  stripped  of  their  herds  and 
turned  into  corn  and  cane  fields :  when  I  came,  a  few 
months  ago,  to  that  station  on  Morgan's  Louisiana 
and  Texas  Railroad  where  Claude  first  went  aboard  a 
railway- train,  somebody  had  actually  moved  the  bayou, 
the  swamp,  and  the  prairie  apart ! 


THE  SHAKING   PRAIRIE.  215 

However,  the  exact  whereabouts  of  the  St.  Pierres 
is  not  important  to  us.  Mr.  Tarbox,  when  in  search 
of  the  camp  he  crossed  the  Teche  at  St.  Martin ville, 
expected  to  find  it  somewhere  north-eastward,  between 
that  stream  and  the  Atchafalaya.  But  at  the  Atcha- 
fala^^a  he  found  that  the  work  in  that  region  had  been 
finished  three  days  before,  and  that  the  party  had  been 
that  long  gone  to  take  part  in  a  new  work  down  in 
the  prairies  tremblantes  of  Terrebonne  Parish.  The 
Louisiana  Land  Reclamation  Company, — I  think  that 
was  the  name  of  the  concern  projecting  the  scheme. 
This  was  back  in  early  Februar}^  30U  note. 

Thither  Mr.  Tarbox  followed.  The  "Album  of 
Universal  Information"  went  along,  and  "  did  well." 
It  made  his  progress  rather  slow,  of  course  ;  but  one 
of  Mr.  Tarbox's  many  maxims  was,  never  to  make 
one  day  pay  for  another  when  it  could  be  made  to  pay 
for  itself,  and  during  this  season  —  this  Louisiana 
campaign,  as  he  called  it  —  he  had  developed  a  new 
art,  —  making  each  day  pay  for  itself  several  times 
over. 

"Many  of  these  people,"  he  said, — but  said  it 
solely  and  silently  to  himself,  —  "are  ignorant,  shift- 
less, and  set  in  their  ways  ;  and  even  when  they're  not 
they're  out  of  the  current,  as  it  were  ;  they  haven't 
headway;  and  so  they  never  —  or  seldom  ever  —  see 
any  way  to  make  mone}'  except  somehow  in  connection 
with  the  plantations.  There's  no  end  of  chances  here 
to  a  man  that's  got  money-sense,  and  nerve  to  use 
it."  He  wrote  that  to  Zosephine,  but  she  wrote  no 
answer.     A  day  rarely  passed  that   he    did   not    find 


2 1 G  BONA  VEN  TURE. 

some  man  making  needless  loss  through  ignorance  or 
inactivity ;  whereupon  he  would  simply  put  in  the 
sickle  of  his  sharper  wit,  and  garner  the  neglected 
harvest.  Or,  seeing  some  unesteemed  commodity  that 
had  got  out  of,  or  had  never  been  brought  into,  its  best 
form,  time,  or  place,  he  knew  at  sight  just  how,  and  at 
what  expense,  to  bring  it  there,  and  brought  it. 

"  Give  me  the  gains  other  men  pass  by,"  he  said, 
"  and  I'll  be  satisfied.  The  saying  is,  '  Buy  wisdom  ; ' 
but  I  sell  mine.  I  like  to  sell.  I  enjoy  making  money. 
It  suits  m}'  spirit  of  adventure.  I  like  an  adventure. 
And  if  there's  any  thing  I  love,  it's  an  adventure  with 
money  in  it !  But  even  that  isn't  my  chief  pleasure  : 
my  chief  pleasure's  the  study  of  human  nature. 

'  The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man. 


Sole  judge  of  truth,  in  endless  error  hurled, 
The  glory,  jest,  and  riddle  of  the  world.'  " 

This  spoiling  of  Assyrian  camps,  so  to  speak,  often 
detained  Mr.  Tarbox  within  limited  precincts  for  days 
at  a  time  ;  but  "  Isn't  that  what  time  is  for?  "  he  would 
say  to  those  he  had  been  dealing  with,  as  he  finally 
snapped  the  band  around  his  pocket-book ;  and  they 
would  respond,  "Yes,  that's  so." 

And  then  he  would  wish  them  a  hearty  farewell, 
while  they  were  thinking  that  at  least  he  might  know 
it  was  his  treat. 

Thus  it  was  the  middle  of  February  when  at  Houma, 
the  parish  seat  of  Terrebonne,  he  passed  the  last  root- 
let of  railwa}^,  and,  standing  finall}'  under  the  blossom- 


THE  SHAKING  PRAIRIE.  217 

ing  orange-trees  of  Terrebonne  Bayou  far  down  toward 
the  Gulf,  heard  from  the  chief  of  the  engineering  party 
that  Claude  was  not  with  him. 

"  He  didn't  leave  us  ;  we  left  him  ;  and  up  to  the 
time  when  we  left  he  hadn't  decided  where  he  would 
go  or  what  he  would  do.  His  father  and  he  are  to- 
gether, you  know,  and  of  course  that  makes  it  harder 
for  them  to  know  just  how  to  move." 

The  speaker  was  puzzled.  What  could  this  silk- 
hatted,  cut-away-coated,  empearled,  free  lance  of  a 
fellow  want  with  Claude  ?  He  would  like  to  find  out. 
So  he  added,  "  I  may  get  a  letter  from  him  to-morrow  ; 
suppose  you  stay  with  me  until  then."  And,  to  his 
astonishment,  Mr.  Tarbox  quickly  jumped  at  the  prop- 
osition. 

No  letter  came.  But  when  the  twenty-four  hours 
had  passed,  the  surveyor  had  taken  that  same  generous 
—  not  to  say  credulous  —  liking  for  Mr.  Tarbox  that 
we  have  seen  him  show  for  St.  Pierre  and  for  Claude. 
He  was  about  to  start  on  a  tour  of  observation  east- 
ward through  a  series  of  short  canals  that  span  the 
shaking  prairies  from  bayou  to  bayou,  from  Terrebonne 
to  Lafourche,  Lafourche  to  Dcs  Allemands,  so  through 
Lake  Ouacha  into  and  up  Barataria,  again  across 
prairie,  and  at  length,  leaving  Lake  Cataouach«^  on  the 
left,  through  cypress-swamp  to  the  Mississippi  River, 
opposite  New  Orleans.  He  would  have  pressed  Mr. 
Tarbox  to  bear  him  company  ;  but  before  he  could  ask 
twice,  Mr.  Tarbox  had  consented.  They  went  in  a  cat- 
rigged  skiff,  with  a  stalwart  negro  rowing  or  towing 
whenever  the  sail  was  not  the  best. 


218  nONAVENrURE. 

'■'  It's  all  of  sixty  miles,"  said  the  engineer  ;  "  but  if 
the  wind  doesn't  change  or  drop  we  can  sleep  to-night 
in  Achille's  hut,  send  this  man  and  skiff  back,  and 
make  Achille,  with  his  skiff,  put  us  on  board  the 
Louisiana-avenue  ferry-launch  to-morrow  afternoon." 

''Who  is  Achille?" 

"  Achille?  Oh  !  he's  merely  a  'Cajuu  pot-hunter  liv- 
ing on  a  shell  bank  at  the  edge  of  Lake  Cataouach^, 
with  an  Indian  wife.  Used  to  live  somewhere  on  Bayou 
des  AUemands,  but  last  year  something  or  other  scared 
him  away  from  there.  He's  odd  —  seems  to  be  a  sort  of 
self-made  outcast.  I  don't  suppose  he's  ever  done  any- 
body- any  harm  ;  but  he  just  seems  to  be  one  of  that  kind 
that  can't  bear  to  even  try  to  keep  up  with  the  rest  of 
humanity  ;  the  sort  of  man  swamps  and  shaking  prairies 
were  specially  made  for,  you  know.  He's  living  right 
on  top  of  a  bank  of  fossil  shells  now,  —  thousands  of 
barrels  of  them,  —  that  he  knows  would  bring  him  a  little 
fortune  if  onl}'  he  could  command  the  intelligence  and 
the  courage  to  market  them  in  New  Orleans.  There's  a 
chance  for  some  bright  man  who  isn't  already  too  busy. 
Why  didn't  I  think  to  mention  it  to  Claude?  But  then 
neither  he  nor  his  father  have  got  the  commercial 
knowledge  they  would  need.  Now  "  —  The  speaker 
suddenly  paused,  and,  as  the  two  men  sat  close  beside 
each  other  under  an  umbrella  in  the  stern  of  the  skiff, 
looked  into  Mr.  Tarbox's  pale-blue  eyes,  and  smiled, 
and  smiled. 

"  I'm  here,"  said  Mr.  Tarbox. 

"Yes,"  responded  the  other,  "and  I've  just  made 
out  why  !     And  you're  right,  Tarbox  ;  you  and  Claude, 


THE   SHAKING    PBAIRIE.  219 

with  or  without  his  father,  will  make  a  strong  team. 
You've  got  uo  business  to  be  canvassiug  books, 
you"- 

"  It's  my  line,"  said  the  canvasser,  smiUng  fondly 
and  pushing  his  hat  back, — it  was  wonderful  how  he 
kept  that  hat  smooth, —  "  and  I'm  the  head  of  the 
line : 

'  A  voice  replied  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior!' 

I  was  acquainted  with  Mr.  Longfellow." 

''Tarbox,"  persisted  the  engineer,  driving  away  his 
own  smile,  "  you  know  what  you  are  ;  you  are  a  born 
contractor!  You've  found  it  out,  and" — smiling 
again —  "that's  why  you're  looking  for  Claude." 

"  Where  is  he?  "  asked  Mr.  Tarbox. 

"  Well,  I  told  you  the  truth  when  I  said  I  didn't 
know  ;  but  I  haven't  a  doubt  he's  in  Vermilionville." 

"  Neither  have  I,"  said  the  book-agent ;  "  and  if  I 
had,  I  wouldn't  give  it  room.  If  I  knew  he  was  in 
New  Jersey,  still  I'd  think  he  was  in  Vermilionville, 
and  go  there  looking  for  him.  And  wherefore  ?  For 
occult  reasons."  The  two  men  looked  at  each  other 
smilingly  in  the  eye,  and  the  boat  glided  on. 

The  wind  favored  them.  With  only  now  and  then 
the  cordelle,  and  still  more  rarely  the  oars,  they  moved 
all  day  across  the  lands  and  waters  that  were  once  the 
fastnesses  of  the  Baratarian  pirates.  The  engineer 
made  his  desired  observations  without  appreciable 
delays,  and  at  night  they  slept  under  Achille's  thatch 
of  rushes. 


220  BONAVENTURE. 

As  the  two  trnvollers  stood  alone  for  a  moment  next 
morning,  the  enghieer  said  : 

"You  seem  to  be  making  a  stud}'  of  my  pot-hunter." 

"  It's  my  natural  instinct,"  replied  Mr.  Tarbox. 
"  The  stud}'  of  human  nature  comes  just  as  natural  to 
me  as  it  does  to  a  new-born  duck  to  scratch  the  back 
of  its  head  with  its  hind  foot;  just  as  natural — and 
easier.     The  pot-hunter  is  a  study  ;  3'ou're  right." 

"But  he  reciprocates,"  said  the  engineer;  "he 
studies  3^ou." 

The  student  of  man  held  his  smiling  companion's 
gaze  with  his  own,  thrust  one  hand  into  his  bosom, 
and  lifted  the  digit  of  the  other :  "  The  eyes  are  called 
the  windows  of  the  soul,  — 

"  '  And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
Tliy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes.' 

"  Have  you  tried  to  look  into  his  eyes?  You  can't 
do  it.  He  won't  let  you.  He's  got  something  in 
there  that  he  doesn't  want  you  to  see." 

In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  when  Achille's  skiff 
was  already  re-entering  the  shades  of  the  swamp  on 
his  way  homeward,  and  his  two  landed  passengers 
stood  on  the  levee  at  the  head  of  Harvey's  Canal  with 
the  Mississippi  rolling  by  their  feet  and  on  its  farther 
side  the  masts  and  spires  of  the  city,  lighted  by  the 
western  sun,  swinging  round  the  long  bend  of  her 
yellow  harbor,  Mr.  Tarbox  offered  his  hand  to  say 
good-by.     The  surveyor  playfully  held  it. 

"  I  mean  no  disparagement  to  your  present  calling," 
he  said,  "  but  the  next  time  we  meet  I  hope  you'll  be 
a  contractor." 


NOT  BLUE  EYES,   NOR    YELLOW  HAIR.      221 

"Ah!"  responded  Tarbox,  "it's  not  my  nature. 
I  cannot  contract ;  I  must  always  expand.  And  yet  — 
I  thank  you. 

'* '  Pure  thoughts  are  angel  visitors.     Be  such 
The  frequent  inmates  of  thy  guileless  breast.' 

"Good  luck!     Good-by!" 

One  took  the  ferry  ;  the  other,  the  west  bound  train 
at  Gretna. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

NOT    BLUE    EYES,    NOR    YELLOW    HAIR. 

When  the  St.  Pierres  found  themselves  really  left 
with  only  each  other's  faces  to  look  into,  and  the 
unbounded  world  around  them,  it  was  the  father  who 
first  spoke  : 

"  Well,  Claude,  where  you  t'ink  'better  go?  " 

There  had  been  a  long,  silent  struggle  in  both  men's 
minds.  And  now  Claude  heard  with  joy  this  question 
asked  in  English.  To  ask  it  in  their  old  Acadian 
tongue  would  have  meant  retreat ;  this  meant  advance. 
And  yet  he  knew  his  father  yearned  for  Baj^ou  des 
Acadiens.  Nay,  not  his  father ;  only  one  large  part 
of  his  father's  nature ;  the  old,  French,  home-loving 
part. 

What  should  Claude  answer  ?  Grande  Pointe  ?  Even 
for  St.  Pierre  alone  that  vvas  impossible.  "  Can  a 
man  enter  a  second  time  into  his  mother's  womb?'* 


222  BONAVENTUBE. 

No ;  the  thatclicd  cabin  stood  there,  —  stands  there 
now  ;  but,  be  he  happy  or  unhappy,  no  power  can  ever 
make  St.  Pierre  small  enough  again  to  go  back  into 
that  shell.  Let  it  stand,  the  lair  of  one  of  whom  you 
may  have  heard,  who  has  retreated  straight  l)ackward 
from  Grande  Pointe  and  from  advancing  enlighten- 
ment and  order, — the  village  drunkard,  Chat-ou^. 

Claude's  trouble,  then,  was  not  that  his  father's 
happiness  beckoned  in  one  direction  and  his  in  another  ; 
but  that  his  father's  was  linked  on  behind  his.  Could 
the  father  endure  the  atmosphere  demanded  by  the 
son's  widening  power?  Could  the  second  nature  of 
lifetime  habits  bear  the  change?  Of  his  higher  spirit 
there  was  no  doubt.  Neither  father  nor  son  had  any 
conception  of  happiness  separate  from  noble  aggran- 
dizement. Nay,  that  is  scant  justice ;  far  more  than 
they  knew,  or  than  St.  Pierre,  at  least,  would  have 
acknowledged,  they  had  caught  the  spirit  of  Bonaven- 
ture,  to  call  it  by  no  higher  name,  and  saw  that  the 
best  life  for  self  is  to  live  the  best  possible  for  others. 
"For  all  others,"  Bonaventure  would  have  insisted; 
but  "  for  Claude,"  St.  Pierre  would  have  amended. 
They  could  not  return  to  Grande  Pointe. 

AVhere,  then,  should  they  go?  Claude  stood  with  his 
arms  akimbo,  looked  into  his  father's  face,  tried  to 
hide  his  perplexity  under  a  smile,  and  then  glanced 
at  their  little  pile  of  effects.  There  lay  their  fire-arms, 
the  same  as  ever ;  but  the  bundles  in  Madras  handker- 
chiefs had  given  place  to  travelling-bags,  and  instead 
of  pots  and  pans  here  were  books  and  instruments. 
AVhat  reply  did  these  things  make?    New  Orleans? 


NOT  BLUE  EYES,   NOR    YELLOW  HAIR.      223 

The  great  city?  Even  Claude  shrank  from  that 
thought. 

No,  it  was  the  name  of  quite  a  different  place  they 
spoke ;  a  name  that  Claude's  lips  dared  not  speak, 
because,  for  lo !  these  months  and  months  his  heart 
had  spoken  it,  —  spoken  it  at  first  in  so  soft  a  whisper 
that  for  a  long  time  he  had  not  known  it  was  his  heart 
he  heard.  When  something  within  uttered  and  re- 
uttered  the  place's  name,  he  would  silently  explain  to 
himself:  "  It  is  because  I  am  from  home.  It  is  this 
unfixed  camp-life,  this  life  without  my  father,  without 
Bonaventure,  that  does  it.  This  is  not  love,  of  course  ; 
I  know  that :  for,  in  the  first  place,  I  was  in  love  once, 
when  I  was  fourteen,  and  it  was  not  at  all  like  this ; 
and  in  the  second  place,  it  would  be  hopeless  presump- 
tion in  me,  muddy-booted  vagabond  that  I  am  ;  and 
in  the  third  place,  a  burnt  child  dreads  fire.  And  so 
it  cannot  be  love.  When  papa  and  I  are  once  more 
together,  this  unaccountable  longing  will  cease." 

But,  instead  of  ceasing,  it  had  grown.  The  name  of 
the  place  was  still  the  only  word  the  heart  would  ven- 
ture ;  but  it  meant  always  one  pair  of  eyes,  one  young 
face,  one  form,  one  voice.  Still  it  was  not  love  —  oh, 
no  !  Now  and  then  the  hospitality  of  some  plantation- 
house  near  the  camp  was  offered  to  the  engineers  ;  and 
sometimes,  just  to  prove  that  this  thing  was  not  love, 
he  would  accept  such  an  invitation,  and  even  meet  a 
pretty  maiden  or  two,  and  ask  them  for  music  and 
song  —  for  which  he  had  well-nigh  a  passion  —  and 
talk  enough  to  answer  their  questions  and  conjectures 
about  a  surveyor's  life,  etc.  ;  but  when  he  got  back  to 


.70_ 


BONAVENTURE. 


camp,  matters  within  his  breast  were  rather  worse  than 
better. 

He  had  then  tried  staj-ing  in  camp,  but  without 
benefit,  —  nothing  cured,  every  thing  aggravated. 
And  3'et  he  knew  so  perfectly  well  that  he  was  not  in 
love,  that  just  to  realize  the  knowledge,  one  evening, 
when  his  father  was  a  day's  march  ahead,  and  he  was 
having  a  pleasant  chat  with  the  "chief,"  no  one  else 
nigh,  and  they  were  dawdling  awa}'  its  closing  hour 
with  pipes,  metaphysics,  psychology,  and  like  trifles, 
which  Claude,  of  course,  knew  all  about,  —  Claude  told 
him  of  this  singular  and  amusing  case  of  haunting 
fantasy  in  his  own  experience.  His  hearer  had  shown 
even  more  amusement  than  he,  and  had  gone  on  smil- 
ing every  now  and  then  afterward,  with  a  significance 
that  at  length  drove  Claude  to  bed  disgusted  with  him 
and  still  more  with  himself.  There  had  been  one  oflf- 
setting  comfort;  an  unintentional  implication  had 
somehow  slipped  in  between  his  words,  that  the  haunt- 
ing fantasy  had  blue  eyes  and  yellow  hair. 

"All  right,"  the  angry  youth  had  muttered,  tossing 
on  his  iron  couch,  "  let  him  think  so  !  "  And  then  he 
had  tossed  again,  and  said  below  his  breath,  "It  is 
not  love  :  it  is  not.  But  I  must  never  answer  its  call ; 
if  I  do,  love  is  what  it  will  be.  My  father,  my  father ! 
would  that  I  could  give  my  whole  heart  to  thee  as  thou 
givest  all  to  me  !  " 

God  has  wTitten  on  every  side  of  our  nature,  —  on 
the  mind,  on  the  soul,  yes,  and  in  our  very  flesh,  — 
the  interdict  forbidding  love  to  have  any  one  direction 
only,  under  penalty  of  being  forever  dwarfed.     This 


NOT  BLUE  EYES,   NOR    YELLOW  HAIR.      225 

Claude  vaguely  felt ;  but  lacking  the  clear  thought,  he 
could  only  ciy,  '-Oh,  is  it,  is  it,  selfishuess  for  one's 
heart  just  to  be  hungry  and  thirsty?  " 

And  now  here  sat  liis  father,  on  all  their  worldly 
goods,  his  rille  between  his  knees,  waiting  for  his  son's 
choice,  and  ready  to  make  it  his  own.  And  here  stood 
the  son,  free  of  foot  to  follow  that  voice  w^hich  was 
calling  to-day  louder  than  ever  before,  but  feeling 
assured  that  to  follow  it  meant  love  without  hope  for 
him,  and  for  this  dear  father  the  pain  of  yielding  up 
the  larger  share  of  his  son's  heart,  —  as  if  love  were 
subject  to  arithmetic  !  —  yielding  it  to  one  who,  thought 
Claude,  cared  less  for  both  of  them  than  for  one  tress 
of  her  black  hair,  one  lash  of  her  dark  eyes.  While 
he  still  pondered,  the  father  spoke. 

''Claude,  I  tell  you!"  his  face  lighted  up  with 
courage  and  ambition.  "We  better  go  —  Mervilion- 
ville!" 

Claude's  heart  leaped,  but  he  kept  his  countenance. 
"  Vermilionville?  No,  papa;  3'ou  will  not  Uke  Yer- 
milionville." 

"  Yaas  !  I  will  like  him.  'Tis  good  place!  Bona- 
venture  come  from  yondah.  When  I  was  leav'  Gran' 
Point',  Bonaventure,  he  cry,  you  know,  like  I  tole 
you.  He  tell  Sidonie  he  bringin'  ed'cation  at  Gran' 
Point'  to  make  Gran'  Point'  more  better,  but  now 
ed'cation  drive  bes'  men  'way  from  Gran'  Point'.  And 
den  he  say,  '  St.  Pierre,  may  bee  you  go  Mervilionville  ; 
dat  make  me  glad,'  he  say:  '  dat  way,'  he  say,  'what 
I  rob  Peter  I  pay  John.'  Where  we  go  if  dawn't 
go  Mervilionville?      St.   Martinville,  Opelousas,  New 


226  BONAVENTURE. 

Iberia?  Too  many  Creole  3'ondah  for  me.  Can't  go 
to  city  ;  city  too  big  to  live  in.  Why  you  dawn't  like 
Mervilionville?  You  write  me  letter,  when  3'ou  was 
yondah,  you  like  him  fus'  class  !  " 

Claude  let  silence  speak  consent.  He  stooped,  and 
began  to  load  himself  with  their  joint  property.  He 
had  had,  in  his  life,  several  sorts  of  trouble  of  mind ; 
but  only  just  now  at  twenty  was  he  making  the  acquaint- 
ance of  his  conscience.  Vermilionville  was  the  call 
that  had  been  sounding  within  him  all  these  months, 
and  Marguerite  was  the  haunting  fantasy. 


CHAPTER    X. 

A    STRONG   TEA:M. 

I  WOULD  not  wish  to  offend  the  self-regard  of 
Vermilionville.  But  —  what  a  place  in  which  to  seek 
enlargement  of  life !  I  know  worth  and  greatness 
have  sometimes,  not  to  say  ofttimes,  emerged  from 
much  worse  spots  ;  from  little  lazy  villages,  noisy  only 
on  Sunday,  with  grimier  court-houses,  deeper  dust  and 
mud,  their  trade  more  entirely  in  the  hands  of  rat-faced 
Isaacs  and  Jacobs,  with  more  frequent  huge  and  soli- 
tary swine  slowly  scavenging  about  in  abysmal  self- 
occupation,  fewer  vine-clad  cottages,  raggeder  negroes, 
and  more  decay.  Vermilionville  is  not  the  worst,  at 
all.     I  have  seen  large,  and  enlarging,  lives  there. 

Hither  came  the   two  St.  Pierres.     "  No,"  Claude 


A    STRONG    TEAM.  221 

said;  "  they  would  not  go  to  the  Beausoleil  house." 
Privately  he  would  make  himself  believe  he  had  not 
returned  to  an}'  thing  named  Beausoleil,  but  only  and 
simply  to  Vermilionville.  On  a  corner  opposite  the 
public  square  there  was  another  "  hotel ;  "  and  it  was 
no  great  matter  to  them  if  it  was  mostly  pine-boards, 
pale  wall-paper,  and  transferable  whitewash.  But, 
not  to  be  outdone  by  its  rival  round  the  corner,  it  had, 
besides,  a  piano,  of  a  quality  a'ou  may  guess,  and  a 
landlady's  daughter  who  seven  times  a  day  played  and 
sang  "  I  want  to  be  somebody's  darling,"  and  had  no 
want  beyond.  The  travellers  turned  thence,  found 
a  third  house  full,  conjectured  the  same  of  the  only 
remaining  one,  and  took  their  way,  after  all,  towards 
Zosephine's.  It  was  quite  right,  now,  to  go  there, 
thought  Claude,  since  destiny  led  ;  and  so  he  let  it 
lead  both  his  own  steps  and  the  thrumping  boots  of 
this  dear  figure  in  Campeachy  hat  and  soft  untrimmed 
beard,  that  followed  ever  at  his  side. 

And  then,  after  all! — looking  into  those  quiet 
black  eyes  of  Zosephine's,  —  to  hear  that  Marguerite 
was  not  there !  Gone  !  Gone  to  the  great  city,  the 
place  "too  big  to  live  in."  Gone  there  for  knowl- 
edge, training,  cultivation,  larger  life,  and  finer  uses ! 
Gone  to  study  an  art,  —  an  art !  Risen  beyond  him 
"like  a  diamond  in  the  sky."  And  he  fool  enough 
to  come  rambling  back,  blue-shirted  and  brown-handed, 
expecting  to  find  her  still  a  tavern  maid  !  So,  fare- 
well fantasy !  'Twas  better  so  ;  much  better.  Now 
life  was  simplified.  Oh,  yes ;  and  St.  Pierre  made 
matters  better  still  by  saying  to  Zosephine  : 


228  BONAVENTURE. 

"  I  dinn'  know  you  got  one  lill  gal.  Claude  never 
tell  me  'bout  dat.  I  spec'  dat  why  he  dawn't  want 
'come  yeh.  He  dawn't  like  gal ;  he  run  f  om  'em  like 
dog  from  yalla-jacket.  He  dawn't  like  none  of  'm. 
What  he  like,  dass  his  daddy.  He  jus'  married  to  his 
dadd}'."  The  father  dropped  his  hand,  smilingly, 
upon  his  son's  shoulder  with  a  weight  that  would  have 
crushed  it  in  had  it  been  ordinary  cast-iron. 

Claude  took  the  hand  and  held  it,  while  Zos^phine 
smiled  and  secretly  thanked  God  her  child  was  away. 
In  her  letters  to  Marguerite  she  made  no  haste  to  men- 
tion the  young  man's  re-appearance,  and  presently  a 
small  thing  occurred  that  made  it  well  that  she  had  left 
it  untold. 

With  Claude  and  his  father  some  days  passed  un- 
employed. Yet  both  felt  them  to  be  heavy  with  signifi- 
cance. The  weight  and  pressure  of  new  and,  to  them, 
large  conditions,  were  putting  their  inmost  quality  to 
proof.  Claude  saw,  now,  what  he  could  not  see 
before  ;  why  his  friend  the  engineer  had  cast  him  loose 
without  a  word  of  advice  as  to  where  he  should  go  or 
what  he  should  do.  It  was  because  b}'  asking  no  ad- 
vice he  had  really  proposed  to  be  his  own  master. 
And  now,  could  he  do  it?     Dare  he  try  it? 

The  first  step  he  took  was  taken,  I  suppose,  instinct- 
ively rather  than  intelligently  ;  certainly  it  was  perilous  : 
he  retreated  into  himself.  St.  Pierre  found  work  afield, 
for  of  this  sort  there  was  plenty  ;  the  husbandmen's 
year,  and  the  herders'  too,  were  just  gathering  good 
momentum.  But  Claude  now  stood  looking  on  empty- 
handed  where  other  men  were  busy  with  agricultural 


A   STRONG    TEAM.  229 

utensils  or  machines;  or  now  kept  his  room,  whittling 
out  a  toy  miniature  of  some  apparatus,  which  when 
made  was  not  like  the  one  he  had  seen,  at  last.  A 
great  distress  beo'an  to  fill  the  father's  mind.  There 
had  been  a  time  when  he  could  be  idle  and  whittle,  but 
that  time  was  gone  by  ;  that  was  at  Grande  Pointe  ;  and 
now  for  his  son  —  for  Claude  —  to  become  a  lounger 
in  tavern  quarters  —  Claude  had  not  announced  himself 
to  Vermilionville  as  a  surveyor,  or  as  any  thing  — 
Claude  to  be  a  hater  of  honest  labor  —  was  this  what 
Bonaventure  called  civilize-ation  ?  Better,  surely  better, 
go  back  to  the  old  pastoral  life.  How  yearningly  it 
was  calling  them  to  its  fragrant  bosom  !  And  almost 
every  thing  was  answering  the  call.  The  town  was 
tricking  out  its  neglected  decay  with  great  trailing  robes 
of  roses.  The  spade  and  hoe  were  busy  in  front 
flower-beds  and  rear  kitchen-gardens.  Lanes  were 
green,  skies  blue,  roads  good.  In  the  has  fonds  the 
oaks  of  many  kinds  and  the  tupelo-gums  were  hiding 
all  their  gray  in  shimmering  green ;  in  these  coverts 
and  in  the  reedy  marshes,  all  the  feathered  flocks  not 
gone  away  north  were  broken  into  nesting  pairs  ;  in  the 
fields,  crops  were  springing  almost  at  the  sower's  heels  ; 
on  the  prairie  pastures,  once  so  vast,  now  being  nar- 
rowed so  rapidly  by  the  people's  thrift,  the  flocks  and 
herds  ate  eagerly  of  the  bright  new  grass,  and  foals, 
calves,  and  lambs  stood  and  staggered  on  their  first 
legs,  while  in  the  door-yards  housewives,  hens,  and 
mother-geese  warned  away  the  puppies  and  children 
from  downy  broods  under  the  shade  of  the  China-trees. 
But  Claude  ?     Even  his  books  lay  unstudied,  and  his 


230  BONAVENTURE. 

instruments  gathered  dust,  while  he  pottered  over  two 
or  three  little  wooden  things  that  a  boy  could  not  play 
with  without  breaking.  At  last  St.  Pierre  could  bear 
it  no  longer. 

"  Well,  Claude,  dass  ten  days  han'-ruuuiu'  now,  we 
ain't  do  not' in'  but  whittlin'." 

Claude  slowly  pushed  his  model  from  him,  looked, 
as  one  in  a  dream,  into  his  father's  face,  and  suddenly 
and  for  the  first  time  saw  what  that  father  had  suffered 
for  a  fortnight.  But  into  his  own  face  there  came  no 
distress  ;  only,  for  a  moment,  a  look  of  tender  protes- 
tation, and  then  strong  hope  and  confidence. 

'-'  Yass,"  he  said,  rising,  "  dass  true.  But  we 
dawn't  got  wiiittle  no  mo'."  He  pointed  to  the 
model,  then  threw  his  strong  arms  akimbo  and  asked, 
"  You  know  what  is  dat?  " 

"  Naw,"  replied  the  father,  "  I  duuno.  I  t'ink  'taint 
no  real  mash-iu'  [machine]  'cause  I  dawn't  never  see 
nuttin'  like  dat  at  Belle  Alliance  plant-ation,  neider  at 
Belmont ;  and  I  know,  me,  if  anybody*  got  one  mash-in', 
any  place,  for  do  any  t'in'  mo'  betteh  or  mo'  quicker, 
Mistoo  Walleece  an'  M'sieu  Le  Bourgeois  d^y  boun' 
to  'ave  'im.  Can't  hitch  nuttin'  to  dat  t'ing  you  got 
dare  ;  she  too  small  for  a  rat.     What  she  is,  Claude?  " 

A  yet  stronger  hope  and  courage  lighted  Claude's 
face.  He  laid  one  hand  upon  the  table  before  him 
and  the  other  upon  the  shoulder  of  his  sitting  com- 
panion : 

"  Papa,  if  you  w^ant  to  go  wid  me  to  de  city,  we 
make  one  big  enough  for  two  mule'.  Dass  a  mash- in' 
—  a  new  mash-in'  —  my  mash-in'  — my  invention  !  " 


A    STRONG   TEAM.  231 

"  Invench  ?  What  dat  is  —  invench  ?  " 
Some  one  kuocked  on  the  door.  Claude  lifted  the 
model,  moved  on  tiptoe,  and  placed  it  softly  under 
the  bed.  As  he  rose  and  turned  again  with  reddened 
face,  a  card  was  slipped  under  the  door.  He  took  it 
and  read,  in  a  pencil  scrawl, — 

"  State  Superintendent  of  Public  Education/'  — 

looked  at  his  father  with  a  broad  grin,  and  opened  the 
door. 

Mr.  Tarbox  had  come  at  the  right  moment.  There 
was  a  good  hour  and  a  half  of  the  afternoon  still  left, 
and  he  and  Claude  took  a  w^alk  together.  Beyond  a 
stile  and  a  frail  bridge  that  spanned  a  gully  at  one  end 
of  the  town,  a  noble  avenue  of  oaks  leads  toward 
Vermilion  River.  On  one  side  of  this  avenue  the 
town  has  since  begun  to  spread,  but  at  that  time  there 
were  only  wide  fields  on  the  right  hand  and  on  the 
left.  At  the  farther  end  a  turn  almost  at  right  angles 
to  the  left  takes  3'ou  through  a  great  gate  and  across 
the  railway,  then  along  a  ruined  hedge  of  roses,  and 
presently  into  the  oak-grove  of  the  old  ex-governor's 
homestead.     This  was  their  walk. 

By  the  time  they  reached  the  stile,  Claude  had 
learned  that  his  friend  was  at  the  head  of  his  line,  and 
yet  had  determined  to  abandon  that  line  for  another 

"  Far  up  the  height  — 
Excelsior!" 

Also  that  his  friend  had  liked  him,  had  watched  him, 
would  need  him,  and  was  willing   then  and   there  to 


232  BONAVENTUIIE. 

assure  him  a  modest  salary,  wliose  amount  he  speci- 
fied, simpl}'  to  do  whatever  he  might  call  upon  him  to 
do  in  his  (Chaude's)  "  line." 

They  were  walking  slowly,  and  now  and  then  slower 
still.  As  they  entered  the  avenue  of  oaks,  Claude 
declined  the  offer.  Then  they  went  very  slowly  in- 
deed. Claude  learned  that  Mr.  Tarbox,  b}'  some 
chance  not  explained,  had  been  in  company  with  his 
friend  the  engineer;  that  the  engineer  had  said,  '^  Tar- 
box, you're  a  born  contractor,"  and  that  Claude  and 
he  would  make  a  "  strong  team  ;  "  that  Mr.  Tarbox's 
favorite  study  was  human  nature  ;  that  he  knew  talent 
when  he  saw  it ;  had  studied  Claude ;  had  fully  ex- 
pected him  to  decline  to  be  his  employee,  and  liked 
him  the  better  for  so  doing. 

"  That  was  just  a  kind  of  test  vote  ;  see?  " 

Then  Mr.  Tarbox  offered  Claude  a  partnership  ;  not 
an  equal  one,  but  withal  a  fair  interest. 

"We've  got  to  commence  small  and  branch  out 
gradually;  see?"     And  Claude  saw. 

''  Now,  you  wonder  why  I  don't  go  in  alone.  AVell, 
I'll  tell  you  ;  and  when  I  tell  you,  I'll  astonish  3'ou.  I 
lack  education  !  Now,  Claude,  I'm  taking  you  into  my 
confidence.  You've  done  nothing  but  go  to  school  and 
study  for  about  six  years.  I  had  a  different  kind  of 
father  from  yours  ;  I  never  got  one  solid  year's  school- 
ing, all  told,  in  my  life.  I've  picked  up  cords  of 
information,  but  an  ounce  of  education's  worth  a  ton 
of  information.  Don't  you  believe  that?  eh?  it  is  so! 
I  say  it,  and  I'm  the  author  of  the  A.  of  U.  I.  I  like 
to  call  it  that,  because  it  brings  you  and  I  so   near 


A    STRONG    TEAM.  233 

together;  see?"     The  speaker  smiled,  was  still,  and 
resumed  : 

'•  That's  why  I  need  you.  And  I'm  just  as  sure  you 
need  me.  I  need  not  only  the  education  you  have  now, 
but  what  you're  getting  every  day.  When  you  see  me 
you  see  a  man  who  is  always  looking  awa-a-ay  ahead. 
I  see  what  you're  going  to  be,  and  I'm  making  this 
offer  to  the  Claude  St.  Pierre  of  the  future." 

Mr.  Tarbox  waited  for  a  reply.  The  avenue  had 
been  passed,  the  railway  crossed,  and  the  hedge  skirted. 
They  loitered  slowly  into  the  governor's  grove,  under 
whose  canopy  the  beams  of  the  late  afternoon  sun  were 
striking  and  glancing.  But  all  their  light  seemed 
hardly  as  much  as  that  which  danced  in  the  blue  eyes 
of  Mr.  Tarbox  while  Claude  slowly  said : 

"  I  dunno  if  we  can  fix  dat.  I  was  glad  to  see  you 
comin'.  I  reckon  you  jus'  right  kind  of  man  I  want. 
I  jus'  make  a  new  invention.  I  t'ink  'f  you  find  dat's 
good,  dat  be  cawntrac'  enough  for  right  smart  while. 
And  beside',  I  t'ink  I  invent  some  mo'  b'fo'  long." 

But  Mr.  Tarbox  was  not  rash.  He  only  asked  quiet 
and  careful  questions  for  some  time.  The  long  sunset 
was  sending  its  last  vays  across  the  grove-dotted  land, 
and  the  birds  in  every  tree  were  filling  the  air  with  their 
sunset  song-burst,  when  the  two  friends  re-entered  the 
avenue  of  oaks.  They  had  agreed  to  join  their  for- 
tunes.    Now  their  talk  drifted  upon  other  subjects. 

"  I  came  back  to  Vermilionville  purposely  to  see 
you,"  said  Mr.  Tarbox.  "  But  I'll  tell  you  privately, 
you  wasn't  the  only  cause  of  my  coming." 

Claude  looked  at  him  suddenly.     Was  this  another 


234  Ji  ON  A  VENTURE. 

haunted  man?  "Were  there  two  men  haunted,  and  only 
one  fantasy?  He  felt  ill  at  ease.  Mr.  Tarbox  saw, 
but  seemed  not  to  understand.  He  thought  it  best  to 
speak  plainly. 

"I'm  courting  her,  Claude  ;  and  I  think  I'm  going 
to  get  her." 

Claude  stopped  short,  with  jaws  set  and  a  bad  look 
in  his  eye. 

'^  Git  who?" 

But  Mr.  Tarbox  was  calm — even  complacent.  He 
pushed  his  silk  hat  from  his  forehead,  and  said  : 

.  .  .  "  '  One  made  up 
Of  loveliness  alone ; 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 
The  seeming  paragon.' 

I  refer  to  the  Rose  of  Vermiliouville,  the  Pearl  of  the 
Parish,  the  loveliest  love  and  fairest  fair  that  ever 
wore  the  shining  name  of  Beausoleil.  She's  got  to 
change  it  to  Tarbox,  Claude.  Before  yon  sun  has  run 
its  course  again,  I'm  going  to  ask  her  for  the  second 
time.  I've  just  begun  asking,  Claude ;  I'm  going  to 
keep  it  up  till  she  says  yes." 

*'  She's  not  yondah  !  "  snarled  Claude,  with  the  frown 
and  growl  of  a  mastiff.     "  She's  gone  to  de  city." 

Mr.  Tarbox  gazed  a  moment  in  blank  amazement. 
Then  he  slowly  lifted  his  hat  from  his  head,  expanded 
his  ej'es,  drew  a  long  slow  groan,  turned  slowl}'  half 
around,  let  the  inhalation  go  in  a  long  keen  whistle, 
and  cried : 

''Oh!  taste!  taste!     Who's  got  the  taste?     What 


HE  ASKS  HER  AGAIN.  235 

do  3^ou  take  me  for?  Who  are  you  talking  about? 
That  little  monkey?  Why,  man  aliv^e,  it's  the  mother 
I'm  after.     Ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

If  Claude  said  any  thing  in  reply,  I  cannot  imagine 
what  it  was.  Mr.  Tarbox  had  a  right  to  his  opinion 
and  taste,  if  taste  it  could  be  called,  and  Claude  was 
helpless  to  resent  it,  even  in  words  ;  but  for  hours 
afterward  he  execrated  his  offender's  stupidit}',  little 
guessing  that  Mr.  Tarbox,  in  a  neighboring  chamber, 
alone  and  in  his  night-robe,  was  bending,  smiting  his 
thigh  in  silent  merriment,  and  whispering  to  himself  : 

"He  thinks  I'm  an  ass!  He  thinks  I'm  an  ass! 
He  can't  see  that  I  was  simply  investigating  him !  " 


CHAPTER    XI. 

HE    ASKS    HER   AGAIN. 


Claude  and  his  father  left  the  next  day,  —  Saturday. 
Only  the  author  of  the  A.  of  U.  I.  knew  whither  they 
were  gone.  As  they  were  going  he  said  very  privately 
to  Claude  : 

"I'll  be  with  you  day  after  to-morrow.  You  can't 
be  ready  for  me  before  then,  and  you  and  your  father 
can  take  Sunday  to  look  around,  and  kind  o'  see  the 
city.  But  don't  go  into  the  down-town  part ;  you'll 
not  like  it ;  nothing  but  narrow  streets  and  old  build- 
ings with  histories  to  'em,  and  gardens  hid  away  in- 
side of  'em,  and  damp  archways,  and  pagan-looking 


236  B  ON  A  VENTURE. 

females  wlio  can't  talk  Englisli,  peeping  out  over 
balconies  that  offer  to  drop  clown  on  3'ou,  and  then 
don't  keep  their  word ;  every  thing  old-time}',  and 
French}',  and  Spanishy  ;  unprogressive  —  3'ou  wouldn't 
like  it.  Go  up-town.  That's  American.  It's  new  and 
fresh.  There  you'll  find  beautiful  mansions,  mostly 
frame,  it's  true,  but  made  to  look  like  stone,  you 
know.  There  you'll  see  wealth !  There  3'ou'll  get 
the  broad  daj'light  — 

'  The  merry,  merry  sunshine,  that  makes  the  heart  so  gay.' 

See?  Yes,  and  Monday  we'll  meet  at  Jones's,  17 
Tchoupitoulas  Street;  all  right;  I'll  be  on  hand.  But 
to-day  and  to-morrow  —  'Alabama'  —  'here  I  rest.' 
I  feel  constrained  "  —  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart, 
closed  one  eye,  and  whispered  —  "to  sta}'.  I  would 
fain  spend  the  sabbath  in  sweet  Vermilionville.  You 
get  my  idea?  " 

The  sabbath  afternoon,  be^'ond  the  town,  where 
Mr.  Tarbox  strolled,  was  lovelier  than  can  be  told. 
Yet  he  was  troubled.  Zosephine  had  not  thus  far 
given  him  a  moment  alone.  I  suppose,  when  a  luni- 
dred  generations  more  have  succeeded  us  on  the 
earth,  lovers  will  still  be  blind  to  the  fact  tliat  women 
do  not  do  tilings  our  way.  How  can  they?  That 
would  be  capitulation  at  once,  and  even  we  should 
find  the  whole  business  as  stupid  as  shooting  baru3-ard 
fowls. 

Zosephine  had  walked  out  earlier  than  Tarbox.  He 
had  seen  her  go,  but  dared  not  follow.  He  read  ''  thou 
shalt  not"  as  plain  as  print  on  her  back  as  she  walked 


HE  ASKS  HER   AGAIN.  237 

quietty  awa}^ ;  that  same  little  peremptory  back  that 
once  in  her  father's  caliche  used  to  hold  itself  stiff 
when  'Thauase  rode  up  behind.  The  occasional  towns- 
man that  lifted  his  slouch  hat  in  deep  deference  to  her 
silent  bow,  did  not  read  unusual  care  on  her  fair  brow  ; 
yet  she,  too,  was  troubled. 

Marguerite  !  she  was  the  trouble.  Zosephine  knew 
her  child  could  never  come  back  to  these  old  surround- 
ings and  be  content.  The  mother  was  not  willing  she 
should.  She  looked  at  a  photograph  that  her  daughter 
had  lately  sent  her.  What  a  change  from  the  child 
that  had  left  her  !  It  was  like  the  change  from  a  leaf 
to  a  flower.  There  was  but  one  thing  to  do :  follow 
her.  So  Zosephine  had  resolved  to  sell  the  inn.  She 
was  gone,  now,  to  talk  with  the  old  ex-governor  about 
finding  a  purchaser.  Her  route  was  not  by  the  avenue 
of  oaks,  but  around  by  a  northern  and  then  eastern 
circuit.  She  knew  Mr.  Tarbox  must  have  seen  her 
go ;  had  a  genuine  fear  that  he  would  guess  whither 
she  was  bound,  and  yet,  deeper  down  in  her  heart  than 
woman  ever  lets  soliloquy  go,  was  willing  he  should. 
For  she  had  another  trouble.  We  shall  come  to  that 
presently. 

Her  suitor  walked  in  the  avenue  of  oaks. 

"  She's  gone,"  lie  reckoned  to  himself,  "  to  consult 
the  governor  about  something,  and  she'll  come  back 
this  way."  He  loitered  out  across  fields,  but  not  too 
far  off  or  out  of  sight ;  and  by  and  by  there  she  came, 
with  just  the  slightest  haste  in  her  walk.  She  received 
him  with  kindly  reserve,  and  they  went  more  slowly, 
together. 


238  BONAVENTURE. 

She  told  where  she  had  been,  and  that  the  governor 
approved  a  decision  she  had  made. 

"  Yass  ;  I  goin'  sell  my  hotel." 

"  He's  right !  "  exclaimed  her  companion,  with  jo}' ; 
"  and  you're  right !  " 

''Well,  'tain't  sold  yet,"  she  responded.  She  did 
not  smile  as  she  looked  at  him.  He  read  trouble  ; 
some  trouble  apart  from  the  subject,  in  her  quiet, 
intense  eyes. 

''  You  know  sombodie  want  buy  dat?  "  she  asked. 

"I'll  find  some  one,"  he  promptW  replied.  Then 
they  talked  a  little  about  the  proper  price  for  it,  and 
then  were  very  still  until  Mr.  Tarbox  said : 

"  I  walked  out  here  hoping  to  meet  j'ou." 

Madame  Beausoleil  looked  slightly  startled,  and  then 
bowed  gravely. 

"  Yes  ;  I  want  your  advice.  It's  onl}'  business,  but 
it's  important,  and  it's  a  point  where  a  woman's 
instinct  is  better  than  a  man's  judgment." 

There  was  some  melancholy  satire  in  her  respond- 
ing smile ;  but  it  passed  away,  and  Mr.  Tarbox  went 
on : 

"  You  never  liked  my  line  of  business  "  — 

Zosephine  interrupted  with  kind  resentment : 

"Ah!" 

"No;  I  know  3'ou  didn't.  You're  one  of  the  few 
women  whose  subscription  I've  sought  in  vain.  Till 
then  I  loved  my  business.  I've  never  loved  it  since. 
I've  decided  to  sell  out  and  quit.  I'm  going  into 
another  business,  one  that  you'll  admire.  I  don't  say 
any  thing  about  the  man  going  into  it,  — 


HE  ASKS  HER  AGAIN.  239 

*  Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise : 
Act  well  your  part;  there  all  the  honor  lies,'  — 

but  I  want  jour  advice  about  the  party  I  think  of 
going  in  with.     It's  Claude  St.  Pierre." 

Zosephine  turned  upon  the  speaker  a  look  of  steady 
penetration.  He  met  it  with  a  glance  of  perfect  con- 
fiding. "She  sees  me,"  he  said,  at  the  same  time, 
far  within  himself. 

It  was  as  natural  to  Mr.  Tarbox  to  spin  a  web  as  it 
is  for  a  spider.  To  manoeuvre  was  the  profoundest 
instinct  of  his  uuprofouud  nature.  Zosephine  felt  the 
slender  threads  weaving  around  her.  But  in  her  heart 
of  hearts  there  was  a  certain  pleasure  in  being  snared. 
It  could  not,  to  her,  seem  wholly  bad  for  Tarbox  to 
play  spider,  provided  he  should  play  the  harmless 
spider.  Mr.  Tarbox  spoke  again,  and  she  listened 
amiably. 

"Claude  is  talented.  He  has  what  I  haven't;  I 
have  what  he  hasn't,  and  together  we  could  make  each 
other's  fortunes,  if  he's  only  the  square,  high-style 
fellow  I  think  he  is.  I'm  a  student  of  human  nature, 
and  I  think  I've  made  him  out.  I  think  he'll  do  to  tie 
to.  But  will  he?  You  can  tell  me.  You  read  people 
by  instinct.  I  ask  you  just  as  a  matter  of  business 
advice  and  in  business  confidence.  What  do  you  think  ? 
Will  you  trust  me  and  tell  me  —  as  my  one  only  trusted 
friend  —  freely  and  fully  —  as  I  would  tell  you?" 

Madame  Beausoleil  felt  the  odds  against  her,  but  she 
looked  into  her  companion's  face  with  bright,  frank 
eyes  and  said  :     "  Yass,  I  t'ink  yass  ;  I  t'ink  'tis  so." 

"  Thanks  !  "  said  her  friend,  with  unnecessary  fervor 


240  BONAVENTURE. 

and  tenderness.  "  Then  Claude  will  be  my  partner, 
unless  —  ray  dear  friend,  shall  you  be  so  kind  —  I 
might  almost  say  confiding — to  me,  and  me  not  tell 
you  something  I  think  you'd  ought  to  know?  For  I 
hope  we  are  always  to  be  friends  ;  don't  you?  " 

"  Yass,"  she  said,  very  sadly  and  sweetly. 

"Thanks!  And  if  Claude  and  I  become  partners 
that  will  naturally  bring  him  into  our  circle,  as  it 
were ;  see?" 

The  little  madame  looked  up  with  a  sudden  austere 
exaltation  of  frame  and  intensity  of  face,  but  her  com- 
panion rushed  on  with —  "  And  I'm  going  to  tell  3'ou, 
let  the  risk  to  me  be  what  it  may,  that  it  may  result  in 
great  unhappiness  to  Claude  ;  for  he  loves  your  daugh- 
ter, who,  I  know,  you  must  think  too  good  for  him !  " 

Madame  Beausoleil  blushed  as  thougli  she  herself 
were  Marguerite  and  Tarbox  were  Claude. 

'•Ah!  love  Marguerite!  Naw,  naw !  He  dawn't 
love  noboddie  but  hees  papa !  Hees  papa  tell  me  dat ! 
Ah  !  naw,  'tis  not  so  !  " 

Mr.  Tarbox  stopped  still ;  and  when  Zosephine  saw 
they  were  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees  while  all  about 
them  was  brightened  by  the  momentarj'  Southern  twi- 
light, she,  too,  stopped,  and  he  spoke. 

•■'  What  brought  Claude  back  here  when  by  right  he 
should  have  gone  straight  to  the  city?  You  might 
have  guessed  it  when  yoM  saw  him."  He  paused  to 
let  her  revolve  the  thought,  and  added  in  his  own 
mind  —  "  If  3'ou  had  disliked  the  idea,  you'd  'a'  sus- 
pected him  quick  enough"  — and  was  pleased.  He 
spoke  again.     "  But  I  didn't  stop  with  guessing." 


HE  ASKS  HER  AGAIN.  241 

Zosephine  looked  up  to  his  face  from  tlie  little  foot 
that  edgewise  was  writing  nothings  in  the  dust. 

"No,"  continued  her  companion :  "I  walked  with 
him  two  evenings  ago  in  this  avenue,  and  right  where 
we  stand  now,  without  his  ever  knowing  it  —  then  or 
now  —  he  as  good  as  told  me.  Yes,  Josephine,  he 
dares  to  love  your  beautiful  and  accomplished  daughter  ! 
The  thought  may  offend  you,  but  —  was  I  not  right  to 
tell  you?" 

She  nodded  and  began  to  move  slowly  on,  he  follow- 
ing. 

"I'm  not  betraying  anyone's  confidence,"  persisted 
he  ;  "  and  I  can't  help  but  have  a  care  for  you.  Not 
that  you  need  it,  or  anybody's.  You  can  take  care 
of  yourself  if  any  man  or  woman  can.  Everj^  time 
your  foot  touches  the  ground  it  sa3^s  so  as  plain  as 
words.  That's  what  first  caught  my  fancy.  You 
haven't  got  to  have  somebod\'  to  take  care  of  you. 

0  Josephine !  that's  just  why  I  want  to  take  care  of 
you  so  bad !  I  can  take  care  of  myself,  and  I  used 
to  like  to  do  it ;  I  was  just  that  selfish  and  small ;  but 
love's  widened  me.  I  can  take  care  of  myself ;  but, 
oh!  what  satisfaction  is  there  in  it?  Is  there  an\'? 
Now,  I  ask  you  !  It  may  do  for  you,  for  you're  worth 
taking  care  of ;  but  I  want  to  take  care  of  something 

1  needn't  be  ashamed  to  love !  "  He  softly  stole  her 
hand  as  they  went.  She  let  it  stay,  yet  looked  away 
from  him,  up  through  the  darkling  branches,  and  dis- 
tressfully shook  her  head. 

"Don't,  Josephine! — don't  do  that.  I  want  you 
to  take  care  of  me.     You  could  do  better,  I  know,  if 


242  B  ON  A  VEN  T  URE. 

love  wasn't  the  count;  but  when  it  comes  to  loving 
you,  I'm  the  edition  deloox !  I  know  you've  an 
aspiring  nature,  but  so  have  I ;  and  I  believe  with  you 
to  love  and  you  loving  me,  and  counselling  and  guiding 
me,  I  could  climb  high.  O  Josephine  !  it  isn't  this 
poor  Tarbox  I'm  asking  you  to  give  yourself  to ;  it's 
the  Tarbox  that  is  to  be  ;  it's  the  coming  Tarbox ! 
Why,  it's  even  a  good  business  move  !  If  it  wasn't 
I  wouldn't  say  a  word !  You  know  I  can,  and  will 
take  the  very  best  care  of  every  thing  you've  got ;  and 
I  know  you'll  take  the  same  of  mine.  It's  a  good 
move,  every  way.  Wh}^  here's  every  thing  just  fixed 
for  it !  Listen  to  the  mocking-bird  !  See  him  yonder, 
just  at  the  right  of  the  stile.  See  !  O  Josephine  ! 
don't  you  see  he  isn't 

"  '  Still  singing  where  the  weeping  willow  waves  '? 

he's  on  the  myrtle  ;  the  m3Ttle,  Josephine,  and  the 
crape-myrtle  at  that !  —  widowhood  unwidowed  !  — 
Now  he's  on  the  fence  —  but  he'll  not  stay  there, — 
and  3'ou  mustn't  either!"  The  suitor  smiled  at  his 
own  ludicrousness,  yet  for  all  that  looked  beseechingly 
in  earnest.  He  stood  still  again,  continuing  to  hold 
her  hand.  She  stole  a  furtive  glance  here  and  there 
for  possible  spectators.     He  smiled  again. 

''You  don't  see  anybody;  the  world  waives  its 
claim."  But  there  was  such  distress  in  her  face  that 
his  smile  passed  away,  and  he  made  a  new  effort 
to  accommodate  his  suit  to  her  mood.  "Josephine, 
there's  no  eye  on  us  except  it's  overhead.  Tell  me 
this  ;   if  he   that  was  yours  until  ten   years  ago  was 


HE  ASKS  HER  AGAIN.  243 

looking  down  now  and  could  speak  to  us,  don't  you 
believe  he'd  say  yes?  " 

''  Oh  !  I  dunno.  Not  to-day  !  Not  dis  day  !  "  The 
widow's  eyes  met  his  gaze  of  tender  inquiry  and  then 
sank  to  the  ground.  She  shook  her  head  mournfully. 
"  Naw,  naw  ;  not  dis  day.  'Tis  to-day  'Thanase  was 
kill'!" 

Mr.  Tarbox  relaxed  his  grasp  and  Zosephine's  hand 
escaped.  She  never  had  betrayed  to  him  so  much 
distress  as  filled  her  face  now.  "  De  man  what  kill' 
him  git  away !  You  t'ink  I  git  marrie'  while  dat  man 
alive?  Ho-o-o !  You  t'ink  I  let  Marguerite  see  me 
do  dat!  Ah!  naw!"  She  waved  him  away  and 
turned  to  leave  the  spot,  but  he  pressed  after,  and  she 
paused  once  more.  A  new  possibility  lighted  his  eyes. 
He  said  eagerly : 

"  Describe  the  man  to  me.  Describe  him.  How 
tall  was  he  ?  How  old  would  he  be  now  ?  Did  they 
try  to  catch  him  ?  Did  you  hear  me  talking  yesterday 
about  a  man?  Is  there  any  picture  of  him?  Have 
you  got  one?  Yes,  you  have  ;  it's  in  3'our  pocket  now 
with  your  hand  on  it.     Let  me  see  it." 

"  Ah  !     I  di'n'  want  you  to  see  dat !  " 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose,  as  far  as  you  know  yourself, 
you  did."  He  received  it  from  her,  and  with  his  eyes 
still  on  her,  continued:  "  No,  but  3'ou  knew  that  if  I 
got  a  ghost  of  a  chance,  I'd  see  you  alone.  You  knew 
what  I'd  ask  you  ;  —  yes,  3'ou  did,  Josephine,  and  j^ou 
put  this  thing  into  your  pocket  to  make  it  easier  to  say 
no." 

"Hah!  easier!  Hah!  easier!    I  need  somethin'  to 


244  BONAVENTURE. 

help  mc  do  dat?  Hah  !  'Tis  not  so  !  "  But  the  weak- 
ness of  the  wordy  denial  was  itself  almost  a  confession. 

They  moved  on.  A  few  steps  brought  them  into 
better  light.  Mr.  Tarbox  looked  at  the  picture. 
Zosephine  saw  a  slight  flash  of  recognition.  He 
handed  it  back  in  silence,  and  they  walked  on,  saying 
not  a  word  until  they  reached  the  stile.  But  there, 
putting  his  foot  upon  it  to  bar  the  way,  he  said : 

"Josephine,  the  devil  never  bid  so  high  for  me 
before  in  his  life  as  he's  bidding  for  me  now.  And 
there's  only  one  thing  in  the  way;  he's  bid  too  late." 

Her  eyes  flashed  with  injured  resentment.  "Ah, 
3'ou  !  3'ou  dawn't  know  not'n'  —  "    But  he  interrupted  : 

"  Stop,  I  don't  mean  more  than  just  what  I  say. 
Six  years  ago  —  six  and  a  half  —  I  met  a  man  of  a 
kind  I'd  never  met,  to  know  it,  before.  You  know 
who'  I  mean,  don't  3^ou?" 

"  Bon  a  venture?  " 

"Yes.  That  meeting  made  a  turning-point  in  my 
life.  You've  told  me  that  whatever  is  best  in  3'ou, 
you  owe  to  him.  Well,  knowing  him  as  I  do,  I  can 
believe  it ;  and  if  it's  true,  then  it's  the  same  with  me  ; 
for  first  he,  and  then  30U,  have  made  another  man  out 
of  me." 

"  Ah,  naw  !  Bonaventure,  may6e  ;  but  not  me  ; 
ah,  naw  !  " 

"But  I  tell  you,  3^es  !  you,  Josephine!  I'm  poor 
sort  enough  yet ;  but  I  could  have  done  things  once 
that  I  can't  do  now.  There  was  a  time  when  if  some 
miserable  outlaw  stood,  or  even  seemed,  maybe,  to 
stand   between    me  and  my  chances  for  happiness,  I 


HE  ASKS   HER  AGAIN.  245 

could  have  handed  him  over  to  human  justice,  so 
called,  as  easy  as  wink;  but  now?  No,  never  an}^ 
more!  Josephine,  I  know  that  man  whose  picture  I've 
just  looked  at.  I  could  see  you  avenged.  I  could  lay 
my  hands,  and  the  hands  of  the  law,  on  him  inside  of 
twenty-four  hours.  You  say  you  can't  marry  till  the 
law  has  laid  its  penalties  on  him,  or  at  least  while  he 
lives  and  escapes  them.     Is  that  right?  " 

Zosephine  had  set  her  face  to  oppose  his  words  only 
with  unyielding  silence,  but  the  answer  escaped  her : 

"  Yass,  'tis  so.     'Tis  ri-ght !  " 

"  No,  Josephine.  I  know  you  feel  as  if  it  were  ; 
but  you  don't  think  so.  No,  you  don't ;  I  know  you 
better  in  this  matter  than  you  know  yourself,  and  you 
don't  think  it's  right.  You  know  justice  belongs  to 
the  State,  and  that  when  you  talk  to  yourself  about 
what  you  owe  to  justice,  it  means  something  else  that 
you're  too  sweet  and  good  to  give  the  right  name  to, 
and  still  want  it.  You  don't  want  it ;  you  don't  want 
revenge,  and  here's  the  proof ;  for,  Josephine,  3^ou 
know,  and  I  know,  that  if  I  —  even  without  speaking 
—  with  no  more  than  one  look  of  the  eye  —  should 
offer  to  buy  your  favor  at  that  price,  even  ever  so  law- 
fully, you'd  thank  me  for  one  minute,  and  then  loathe 
me  to  the  end  of  your  days." 

Zosephine's  face  had  lost  its  hardness.  It  was  drawn 
with  distress.  With  a  gesture  of  repulsion  and  pain 
she  exclaimed : 

"  I  di'n'  mean  —  I  di'n'  mean  —  Ah!" 

"  What?  private  revenge?  No,  of  course  you  did- 
n't !     But  what  else  would  it  be?     O  Josephine  !  don't 


246  BONAVENTURE. 

1  know  you  didn't  mean  it?  Didn't  I  tell  you  so? 
But  I  want  you  to  go  farther.  I  want  you  to  put  away 
forever  the /6?e//»^.  1  want  to  move  and  stand  between 
you  and  it,  and  say  — whatever  it  costs  me  to  say  it  — 
*  God  forbid  !  '  1  do  say  it ;  I  say  it  now.  I  can't  say 
more  ;  I  can't  say  less  ;  and  somehow,  —  I  don't  know 
how — wherever  3'ou  learned  it  —  I've  learned  it  from 
you." 

Zosephine  opened  her  lips  to  refuse  ;  but  they  closed 
and  tightened  upon  each  other,  her  narrowed  eyes  sent 
short  flashes  out  upon  his,  and  her  breath  came  and 
went  long  and  deep  without  sound.  But  at  his  last 
words  she  saw  —  the  strangest  thing  —  to  be  where  she 
saw  it  —  a  tear — tears  —  standing  in  his  eyes;  saw 
them  a  moment,  and  then  could  see  them  no  more  for 
her  own.  Her  lips  relaxed,  her  form  drooped,  she 
lifted  her  face  to  reply,  but  her  mouth  twitched ;  she 
could  not  speak. 

"I'm  not  so  foolish  as  I  look,"  he  said,  trying  to 
smile  away  his  emotion.  "  If  the  State  chooses  to 
hunt  him  out  and  put  him  to  trial  and  punishment, 
I  don't  say  I'd  stand  in  the  way ;  that's  the  State's 
business  ;  that's  for  the  public  safety.  But  it's  too 
late  —  you  and  Bonuyventure  have  made  it  too  late  — 
for  me  to  help  any  one,  least  of  all  the  one  I  love,  to 
be  revenged."  He  saw  his  words  were  prevailing  and 
followed  them  up.  "Oh!  you  don't  need  it  anymore 
than  you  really  want  it,  Josephine.  You  mustn't  ever 
look  toward  it  again.  I  throw  myself  and  m}'  love 
across  the  path.  Don't  walk  over  us.  Take  my  hand  ; 
give  me  yours;  come  another  way;  and  if  you'll  let 


HE  ASKS   HER   AGAIN.  247 

such  a  poor  excuse  for  a  teacher  and  guide  help  3'ou, 
I'll  help  you  all  I  can,  to  learu  to  say  ^  forgive  us  our 
trespasses.'  You  can  begin,  now,  by  forgiving  me.  I 
may  have  thrown  away  my  last  chance  with  you,  but 
I  can't  help  it;  it's  my  love  that  spoke.  And  if  I  have 
spoiled  all  and  if  I've  got  to  pay  for  the  tears  you're 
shedding  with  the  greatest  disappointment  of  my  life, 
still  I've  had  the  glory  and  the  sanctification  of  loving 
you.     If  I  must  say,  I  can  say, 

"  '  'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all.' 

Must  I?     Are  you  going  to  make  me  say  that?  " 

Zosephine,  still  in  tears,  silently  and  with  drooping 
head  pushed  her  way  across  the  stile  and  left  him 
standing  on  the  other  side.  He  sent  one  pleading 
word  after  her : 

''  Isn't  it  most  too  late  to  go  the  rest  of  the  way 
alone?" 

She  turned,  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  for  an  instant,  and 
nodded.  In  a  twinkling  he  was  at  her  side.  She 
glanced  at  him  again  and  said  quite  contentedly  : 

"  Yass ;  'tis  so,"  and  they  went  the  short  remnant 
of  the  way  together. 


248  BONAVENTURE. 

CHAPTER    XII. 

THE    BEAUSOLEILS    AND    ST.    PIERRES. 

You  think  of  going  to  New  Orleans  in  the  spring. 
Certainly,  the  spring  is  the  time  to  go.  AVhen  3'ou 
find  yourself  there  go  some  day  for  luncheon  —  if  they 
haven't  moved  it,  there  is  talk  of  that, — go  to  the 
Christian  AVomen's  Exchange,  already  mentioned,  in  the 
Rue  Bourbon,  — French  Quarter.  You  step  immediatel}^ 
from  the  sidewalk  into  the  former  drawing-room  of 
a  house  built  early  in  the  century  as  a  fashionable  resi- 
dence. That  at  least  is  its  aspect.  Notice,  for 
instance,  in  the  back  parlor,  crowded  now,  like  the 
front  one,  with  eating-tables,  a  really  interesting  old 
wooden  mantelpiece.  Of  course  this  is  not  the  way 
persons  used  to  go  in  old  times.  They  entered  by  the 
porte-cochere  and  open  carriage-way  upon  wiiich  these 
drawing-rooms  still  open  by  several  glass  doors  on  your 
right.  Step  out  there.  You  find  a  veranda  crowded 
with  neat  white-clothed  tables.  Before  some  late  alter- 
ations there  was  a  great  trellis  full  of  green  sunshine 
and  broken  breezes  entangled  among  vines  of  trumpet- 
creeper  and  the  Scuppernong  grape.  Here  you  will 
be  waited  on,  by  small,  blue-calico-robed  damsels  of 
Methodist  unsophistication  and  Presbyterian  propriety, 
to  excellent  refreshment ;  only,  if  3'ou  know  3'our  soul's 
true  interest,  eschew  their  fresh  bread  and  insist  on 
having  yestercla3''s. 

Ilowever,  that  is  a  matter  of  taste  there,  and  no 


THE  BEAUSOLEILS  AND   ST.    PIERRES.      249 

matter  iit  all  here.  All  I  need  to  add  is  that  there  are 
good  apartments  overhead  to  be  rented  to  women  too 
good  for  this  world,  and  that  in  the  latter  end  of 
April,  1884,  Zosephine  and  Marguerite  Beausoleil  here 
made  their  home. 

The  tavern  was  sold.  The  old  life  was  left  far 
behind.  They  had  done  that  dreadful  thing  that  every- 
body deprecates  and  everybody  likes  to  do  —  left  the 
country  and  come  to  live  in  the  city.  And  Zosephine 
was  well  pleased.  A  man  who  had  tried  and  failed 
to  be  a  merchant  in  the  city,  he  and  his  wife,  took  the 
tavern  ;  so  Zosephine  had  not  reduced  the  rural  popu- 
lation—  had  not  sinned  against  "  stastistics." 

Besides,  she  had  the  good  conscience  of  having  fled 
from  Mr.  Tarbox  —  put  U.  and  I.  apart,  as  it  were  — 
and  yet  without  being  so  hid  but  a  suitor's  proper 
persistency  could  find  her.  Just  now  he  was  far  away 
prosecuting  the  commercial  interests  of  Claude's  one 
or  two  inventions ;  but  he  was  having  great  success  ; 
he  wrote  once  or  twice  —  but  got  no  reply  —  and  hoped 
to  be  back  within  a  month. 

When  Marguerite,  after  her  mother's  receipt  of  each 
of  these  letters,  thought  she  saw  a  cloud  on  her  brow, 
Zosephine  explained,  with  a  revival  of  that  old  look 
of  sweet  self-command  which  the  daughter  so  loved  to 
see,  that  they  contained  matters  of  business  not  at 
all  to  be  called  troubles.  But  the  little  mother  did 
not  show  the  letters.  She  could  not ;  Marguerite  did 
not  even  know  their  writer  had  changed  his  business. 
As  to  Claude,  his  name  was  never  mentioned.  Each 
supposed  the  other  was  ignorant   that  he  was  in  the 


250  B  ON  A  VENTURE. 

cit}',  and  because  he  was  never  mentioned  each  one 
knew  the  other  was  thinking  of  him. 

Ah,  Claude!  what  are  you  thinking  of?  Has"  not 
your  new  partner  in  business  told  you  they  are  here? 
No,  not  a  word  of  it.  "  That'll  keep  till  I  get  hack,'* 
Mr.  Tarbox  had  said  to  himself;  and  such  shrewdness 
was  probably  not  so  ungenerous,  after  all.  '•  If  you 
want  a  thing  done  well,  do  it  yourself,"  he  said  one 
evening  to  a  man  who  could  not  make  out  what  he 
was  driving  at ;  and  later  Mr.  Tarbox  added  to  him- 
self, "  The  man  that  flies  the  kite  must  hold  the 
thread."     And  so  he  kept  his  counsel. 

But  that  does  not  explain.  For  we  remember  that 
Claude  already  knew  that  Marguerite  was  in  the  city, 
at  least  had  her  own  mother's  word  for  it.  Here, 
weeks  had  passed.  New  Orleans  is  not  so  large  ;  its 
active  centre  is  very  small.  Even  by  accident,  on  the 
street,  Canal  Street  especially,  he  should  have  seen  her 
time  and  again. 

And  he  did  not ;  at  any  rate  not  to  know  it.  She 
really  kept  very  busy  indoors ;  and  in  other  doors  so 
did  he.  More  than  that,  there  was  his  father.  When 
the  two  first  came  to  the  city  St.  Pierre  endured  the 
town  for  a  week.  But  it  was  martyrdom,  doing  it. 
Claude  saw  this.  Mr.  Tarbox  was  with  him  the  latter 
part  of  the  week.  He  saw  it.  He  gave  his  suggestive 
mind  to  it  for  one  night.  The  next  day  St.  Pierre 
and  he  wandered  off  in  street-cars  and  on  foot,  and  b}^ 
the  time  the  sun  went  down  again  a  new  provision  had 
been  made.  At  about  ninety  minutes'  jaunt  from  the 
city's  centre,  up  the  river,  and  on  its  farther  shore, 


THE  BEAUSOLEILS  AND   ST.   PIERRES.      251 

near  where  the  old  "Company  Canal"  runs  from  a 
lock  in  the  river  bank,  back  through  the  s^yamps  and 
into  the  Baratarian  lakes,  St.  Pierre  had  bought 
with  his  lifetime  savings  a  neat  house  and  fair-sized 
orangery.     No  fields  ?     None  : 

''You  see,  bom-bye  [by-and-by]  Claude  git  doze 
new  mash-in'  all  right,  he  go  to  ingineerin'  agin,  and 
him  and  3'ou  [Tarbox]  be  takin'  some  cawntrac'  for 
bail'  levee  or  break  up  old  steamboat,  or  raise  somet'in' 
what  been  sunk,  or  somet'in'  dat  way.  And  den  he 
certain'  want  somboddie  to  boss  gang  o'  fellows. 
And  den  he  say,  'Papa,  I  want  you.'  And  den  I 
say  how  I  got  fifty  arpent'  [42  acres]  rice  in  field. 
And  den  he  say,  '  How  I  goin'  do  widout  you? '  And 
den  dare  be  fifty  arpent'  rice  gone  !  "     No,  no  fields. 

Better :  here  with  the  vast  wet  forest  at  his  back ; 
the  river  at  his  feet ;  the  canal,  the  key  to  all  Bara- 
taria,  Lafourche,  and  Terrebonne,  full  of  Acadian 
fishermen,  hunters,  timber-cutters,  moss-gatherers,  and 
the  like  ;  the  great  city  in  sight  from  yonder  neighbor's 
balustraded  house-top ;  and  Claude  there  to  rally  to 
his  side  or  he  to  Claude's  at  a  moment's  warning ;  he 
would  be  an  operator  —  think  of  that!  —  not  of  the 
telegraph  ;  an  operator  in  the  w^ild  products  of  the 
swamp,  the  prairies  tremblantes,  the  lakes,  and  in 
the  small  harvests  of  the  idointes  and  bayou  margins : 
moss,  saw-logs,  venison,  wild-duck,  fish,  crabs,  shrimp, 
melons,  garlic,  oranges,  Perique  tobacco.  "Knowl- 
edge is  power;"  he  knew  wood,  water,  and  sky  by 
heart,  spoke  two  languages,  could  read  and  write, 
and  understood  the  wajs  and  tastes  of  two  or  three 


252  BONAVENTURE. 

odd  sorts  of  lowly  liumaii  kind.  Self-command  is 
dominion ;  I  do  not  say  the  bottle  went  never  to  bis 
lips,  but  it  never  was  lifted  high.  And  now  to  the 
blessed  maxim  gotten  from  Bonaventure  he  added 
one  given  him  by  Tarbox:  "  In  h-union  ees  strank  !  " 
Not  mere  union  of  hands  alone ;  but  of  counsels ! 
There  were  Claude  and  Tarbox  and  he  ! 

For  instance  ;  at  Mr.  Tarbox's  suggestion  Claude 
brought  to  his  father  from  the  city  every  evening,  now 
the  ''Picayune"  and  now  the  "Times-Democrat." 
From  European  and  national  news  he  modestly  turned 
aside.  Whether  he  read  the  book-notices  I  do  not 
know  ;  I  hope  not.  But  when  he  had  served  supper  — 
he  was  a  capital  camp  cook  —  and  he  and  Claude  had 
eaten,  and  their  pipes  were  lighted,  you  should  have 
seen  him  scanning  the  latest  quotations  and  debating 
the  fluctuations  of  the  moss  market,  the  shrimp  market, 
and  the  garlic  market. 

Thus  Claude  was  rarely  in  the  city  save  in  the  busy 
hours  of  the  day.  Much  oftener  than  otherwise,  he 
saw  the  crimson  sunsets,  and  the  cool  purple  sunrises 
as  he  and  St.  Pierre  pulled  in  the  father's  skiff  diag- 
onally to  or  fro  across  the  Mississippi,  between  their 
cottage  and  the  sleepy  outposts  of  city  street-cars, 
just  under  the  levee  at  the  edge  of  that  green  oak- 
dotted  plain  where  a  certain  man,  as  gentle,  shy,  and 
unworldly  as  our  engineer  friend  thought  Claude  to 
be,  was  raising  the  vast  buildings  of  the  next  year's 
Universal  Exposition. 

But  all  this  explains  only  why  Claude  did  not,  to 
his  knowledge,  see  Marguerite  by  accident.     Yet  by 


THE  BEAUSOLEILS  AND   ST.    PIERRES.      253 

intention!  Why  not  by  intention?  First,  tliere  was 
his  fear  of  sinning  against  his  father's  love.  That 
alone  might  have  failed  to  hold  him  back  ;  but,  second, 
there  was  his  helplessness.  Love  made  Tarbox,  if  any 
thing  were  needed  to  make  him,  brave  ;  it  made  Claude 
a  coward.  And  third,  there  was  that  helpless  terror 
of  society  in  general,  of  which  we  have  heard  his 
friend  talk.  I  have  seen  a  strong  horse  sink  trem- 
bling to  the  earth  at  the  beating  of  an  empty  drum. 
Claude  looked  with  amazed  despair  at  a  man's  ability 
to  overtake  a  pretty  girl  acquaintance  in  Canal  Street, 
and  walk  and  talk  with  her.  He  often  asked  himself 
how  he  had  ever  been  a  moment  at  his  ease  those 
November  evenings  in  the  tavern's  back-parlor  at 
Vermilionville.  It  was  because  he  had  a  task  there ; 
sociality  was  not  the  business  of  the  hour. 

And  now  I  have  something  else  to  confess  about 
Claude  ;  something  mortif3ing  in  the  extreme.  P^or 
you  see  the  poverty  of  all  these  explanations.  Their 
very  multitude  makes  them  weak.  "  Many  fires  can- 
not quench  love  ;  "  what  was  the  real  matter?  I  will 
tell. 

Claude's  love  was  a  deep  sentiment.  He  had  never 
allowed  it  to  assert  itself  as  a  passion.  The  most  he 
would  allow  it  to  be  was  a  yearning.  It  was  scarcely 
personal.  While  he  was  with  Marguerite,  in  the  inn, 
his  diffidence  alone  was  enough  to  hide  from  him  the 
impression  she  was  making  on  his  heart.  In  all  their 
intercourse  he  had  scarcely  twice  looked  her  full  in 
the  face.  Afterward  she  had  simpl}^  become  in  mem- 
ory the  exponent  of  an  ideal.    He  found  himself  often, 


254  B  ON  A  VEN  T  URE. 

now,  asking  himself,  why  are  my  eyes  alwaj'S  looking 
for  her?  Should  I  actually  know  her,  were  1  to  see 
her  on  this  sidewalk,  or  in  this  street-car?  And  while 
still  asking  himself  these  silent  questions,  what  does 
he  do  one  day  but  fall  —  to  all  intents  and  purposes, 
at  least  —  fall  in  love  —  pell-mell  —  up  to  the  eyebrows 
—  with  another  girl ! 

Do  you  remember  Uncle  Remus's  story  of  Brer 
Rabbit  with  the  bucket  of  honey  inverted  on  him? 
Jt  was  the  same  way  with  Claude.  "He  wa'n't  des 
only  bedobble  wid  it,  he  wuz  des  kiver'd."  It  hap- 
pened thus :  An  artist  friend,  whose  studio  was  in 
Carondelet  Street  just  off  of  Canal,  had  rented  to  him 
for  a  work-room  a  little  loft  above  the  studio.  It  had 
one  window  looking  out  over  roofs  and  chimney-pots 
upon  the  western  sky,  and  another  down  into  the 
studio  itself.  It  is  right  to  say  friend,  although  there 
was  no  acquaintanceship  until  it  grew  out  of  this 
arrangement.  The  artist,  a  single  man,  was  much 
Claude's  senior ;  but  Claude's  taste  for  design,  and 
love  of  work,  and  the  artist's  grave  sincerity,  simpli- 
city, and  cordiality  of  character  —  he  was  a  Spaniard, 
with  a  Spaniard's  perfect  courtesy  —  made  a  mutual 
regard,  which  only  a  common  dithdence  prevented  from 
running  into  comradeship. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  Claude,  thirsting  for  outdoor 
air,  left  his  eyrie  for  a  short  turn  in  Canal  Street.  The 
matinee  audiences  were  just  out,  and  the  wide  bal- 
cony-shaded sidewalks  were  crowded  with  young  faces 
and  bright  attires.  Claude  was  crossing  tlie  '*  neutral 
ground"  toward  Bourbon  Street,  when  he  saw  coming 


THE  CHASE.  255 

out  of  Bourbon  Street  a  young  man,  who  might  be  a 
Creole,  and  two  young  girls  in  light,  and  what  seemed 
to  him  extremel}'  beautiful  dresses ;  especially  that  of 
the  farther  one,  who,  as  the  three  turned  with  buoyant 
step  into  Canal  Street  to  their  left,  showed  for  an 
instant  the  profile  of  her  face,  and  then  only  her  back. 
Claude's  heart  beat  consciously,  and  he  hurried  to 
lessen  the  distance  between  them.  He  had  seen  no 
more  than  the  profile,  but  for  the  moment  in  which 
he  saw  it,  it  seemed  to  be  none  other  than  the  face  of 
Marguerite ! 


CHAPTER   XIII. 


THE    CHASE. 


Claude  came  on  close  behind.  No ;  now  he  could 
see  his  mistake,  it  was  not  she.  But  he  could  not 
regret  it.  This  was  Marguerite  repeated,  yet  tran- 
scended. The  stature  was  just  perceptibly  superior. 
The  breadth  and  grace  of  these  shoulders  were  better 
than  Marguerite's.  The  hair,  arranged  differently  and 
far  more  effectively  than  he  had  ever  seen  it  on  IMar- 
guerite's  head,  seemed  even  more  luxurious  than  hers. 
There  was  altogether  a  finer  dignity  in  this  one's  car- 
riage tlian  in  that  of  the  little  maid  of  the  inn.  And 
see,  now, — now!  —  as  she  turns  her  head  to  glance 
into  this  shop  window  !  It  is,  and  it  isn't,  it  isn't, 
and  it  is,  and  —  no,  no,  it  is  not  Marguerite!  It  is 
like  her  in  profile,  singularly  like,  yet  far  beyond  her ; 


256  BONAVENTURE. 

the  nose  a  little  too  fine,  and  a  certain  sad  firmness 
about  the  mouth  and  eyes,  as  well  as  he  could  see  in 
the  profile,  but  profiles  are  so  deceptive — that  he  had 
never  seen  in  Marguerite. 

"But  how  do  I  know?  What  do  I  know?"  he 
asked  himself,  still  following  on.  "  The  Marguerite 
I  know  is  but  a  thing  of  my  dreams,  and  this  is  not 
that  Marguerite  of  my  actual  sight,  to  whom  I  never 
gave  a  word  or  smile  or  glance  that  calls  for  redemp- 
tion.    This  is  the  Marguerite  of  my  dreams." 

Claude  was  still  following,  when  without  any  cause 
that  one  could  see,  the  young  man  of  the  group  looked 
back.  He  had  an  unpleasant  face  ;  it  showed  a  small 
offensive  energy  that  seemed  to  assert  simpl}"  him  and 
all  his  against  you  and  all  yours.  His  eyes  were  black, 
piercing,  and  hostile.  They  darted  their  glances  straight 
into  Claude's.  Guilty  Claude  !  dogging  the  steps  of 
ladies  on  the  street !  He  blushed  for  shame,  turned  a 
corner  into  Exchange  Alley,  walked  a  little  way  down 
it,  came  back,  saw  the  great  crowd  coming  and  going, 
vehicles  of  all  sorts  hurrying  here  and  there  ;  ranks  of 
street-cars  waiting  their  turns  to  start  to  all  points 
of  the  compass  ;  sellers  of  peanuts  and  walking-sticks, 
buyers  of  bouquets,  acquaintances  meeting  or  overtak- 
ing one  another,  nodding  bonnets,  lifted  hats,  faces, 
faces,  faces ;  but  the  one  face  was  gone. 

Caught,  Claude  ?  And  by  a  mere  face  ?  The  charge 
is  too  unkind.  Young  folly,  yes,  or  old  folly,  may 
read  goodness  rashly  into  all  beauty,  or  not  care  to 
read  it  in  any.  But  it  need  not  be  so.  Upon  the  face 
of   youth  the  soul  within  writes   its    confessions   and 


THE  CHASE.  257 

promises  ;  and  when  the  warm  pulses  of  3"'oung  nature 
are  sanctified  by  upward  3'earnings,  and  a  pure  con- 
science, the  soul  that  seeks  its  mate  will  seek  that  face 
which,  behind  and  through  all  excellencies  of  mere  tint 
and  feature,  mirrors  back  the  seeker's  own  faiths  and 
hopes ;  and  when  that  is  found,  that  to  such  a  one  is 
beauty.  Judge  not ;  you  never  saw  this  face,  fairer  than 
Marguerite's,  to  say  whether  its  beaut}'  was  mere  face, 
or  the  transparent  shrine  of  an  equal  nobility  within. 

Besides,  Claude  would  have  fired  up  and  denied  the 
first  word  of  the  charge  with  unpleasant  flatness.  To 
be  caught  means  to  be  in  love,  to  be  in  love  implies  a 
wish  and  hope  to  marry,  and  these  were  just  what 
Claude  could  not  allow.  May  not  a  man,  nevertheless, 
have  an  ideal  of  truth  and  beauty  and  look  worshipfully 
upon  its  embodiment?     Humph  ! 

His  eyes  sought  her  in  vain  not  only  on  that  after- 
noon, but  on  many  following.  The  sun  was  setting 
every  day  later  and  later  through  the  black  lace-work 
of  pecan-trees  and  behind  low  dark  curtains  of  orange 
groves,  yet  he  began  to  be  more  and  more  tardy  each 
succeeding  day  in  meeting  his  father  under  the  riverside 
oaks  of  the  Exposition  grounds.  And  then,  on  the 
seventh  day,  he  saw  her  again. 

Now  he  was  more  confident  than  ever  that  this  vision 
and  he,  except  in  dreams,  had  never  spoken  to  each 
other.  Yet  the  likeness  was  wonderful.  But  so,  too, 
was  the  unlikeness.  True,  this  time,  she  only  flashed 
across  his  sight  —  out  of  a  bank,  into  a  carriage  where 
a  very  "  American  "-looking  lady  sat  waiting  for  her 
and  was  gone.    But  the  bank  ;  the  carriage  ;  that  lady  ; 


258  BONAVENTURE. 

those  earlier  companions,  —  no,  this  could  not  be  Mar- 
guerite. Marguerite  would  have  been  with  her  mother. 
Now,  if  one  could  see  Madame  Beausoleil's  daughter 
with  JMadame  Beausoleil  at  her  side  to  identify  her  and 
distinguish  her  from  this  flashing  and  vanishing  appa- 
rition it  would  clear  away  a  trying  perplexity.  AVhy 
not  be  bold  and  call  upon  them  where  they  were  dwell- 
ing? But  where?  Their  names  were  not  in  the  direc- 
tory.    Now,  inventive  talent,  do  your  best. 

"Well!"  said  St.  Pierre  after  a  long  silence. 
Claude  and  he  were  out  on  the  swollen  Mississippi 
pulling  with  steady  leisure  for  the  home-side  shore, 
their  skiff  pointed  half  to  and  half  from  the  boiling 
current.  The  sun  was  gone  ;  a  purple  dusk  wrapped 
either  low  bank ;  a  steamboat  that  had  passed  up 
stream  was  now,  at  the  turning  of  the  bend,  only  a 
cluster  of  soft  red  lights  ;  Venus  began  to  make  a  faint 
silvery  pathw^ay  across  the  waters.  St.  Pierre  had 
the  forward  seat,  at  Claude's  back.  The  father  looked 
with  fond  perplexity  at  the  strong  young  shoulders 
swinging  silently  with  his  own,  forward  and  backward 
in  slow,  monotonous  strokes,  and  said  again : 

"Well?  Whass  matter?  Look  like  cat  got  yo' 
tongue.  Makin'  new  mash-in?"  Then  in  a  low  dis- 
satisfied  tone  —  "  I  reckon  somet'in'  mighty  curious." 
He  repeated  the  last  three  words  in  the  Acadian 
speech  :  "  Tcheuque-chose  bien  tchurieux." 

"Yass,"  replied  the  son,  "mighty  strange.  I  tell 
you  when  we  come  at  home." 

He  told  all.     Recounted  all  his  heart's  longings,  all 


THE  CHASE.  259 

his  dreams,  every  least  pang  of  self-reproach,  the 
idealization  of  Marguerite,  and  the  finding  of  that 
ideal  incarnated  in  one  who  was  and  yet  seemed  not 
to  be,  or  rather  seemed  to  be  and  yet  was  not.  Mar- 
guerite. And  then  he  went  on  to  re-assure  his  father 
that  this  could  never  mean  marriage,  never  mean  the 
father's  supplanting.  A  man  could  worship  what  he 
could  never  hope  to  possess.  He  would  rather  worship 
this  than  win  such  kind  as  he  would  dare  woo. 

He  said  all  these  things  in  a  very  quiet  way,  with 
now  and  then  a  silent  pause,  and  now  and  then  a 
calm,  self-contained  tone  in  resuming ;  yet  his  sen- 
tences were  often  disconnected,  and  often  were  half 
soliloquy.  Such  were  the  only  betrayals  of  emotion 
on  either  side  until  Claude  began  to  treat  —  in  the 
words  just  given  —  his  father's  own  heart  interests; 
then  the  father's  eyes  stood  brimming  full.  But  St. 
Pierre  did  not  speak.  From  the  first  he  had  listened 
in  silence  and  he  offered  no  interruption  until  at  length 
Claude  came  to  that  part  about  the  object  of  his 
regard  being  so  far,  so  utterly,  be^^oud  his  reach. 
Then  — 

"Stop!  Dass  all  foolishness!  You  want  her? 
You  kin  have  her !  ' ' 

"  Ah,  papa  !  you  dawn't  awnstand  !     "What  I  am  ?  " 

"  Ah,  bah  !  What  anybody  is  ?  What  she  is  ?  She 
invanted  bigger  mash-in  dan  3'ou?  a  mo'  better  corn- 
stubbl'  destroyer  and  plant-corner?  "  He  meant  corn- 
planter.  "  She  invant  a  more  handier  doubl'-action 
pea-vine  rake?  What  she  done  mak'  her  so  gran'? 
Naw,  sir !     She  look  fine  in  de  face,  3'ass  ;  and  dass 


260  BONAVENTUBE. 

all  3'ou  know.  Well,  class  all  right ;  class  de  'Cajun 
■way  —  pick  'em  out  by  face.  You  begin  'Cajun  way, 
for  why  you  dawn't  finish  'Cajun  way?  All  you  got 
do,  3'ou  git  good  saddle-hoss  and  ride.  Bom-bye  you 
see  her,  you  ride  behind  her  till  you  find  where  her 
daddy  livin'  at.  Den  you  ride  pas'  youdah  every  day 
till  fo',  five  days,  and  den  you  see  de  ole  man  come 
scrape  friend  wid  you.  Den  he  hass  you  drop  round, 
and  fus'  t'ing  you  know  —  adjieu  la  calege!  " 

Claude  did  not  dispute  the  point,  though  he  hardly 
thought  this  case  could  be  worked  that  way.  He 
returned  in  silent  thought  to  the  question,  how  to  find 
Madame  Beausoliel.  He  tried  the  mail ;  no  response. 
He  thought  of  advertising ;  but  that  would  never  do. 
Imagine,  "  If  Madame  Beausoleil,  late  of  Vermilion- 
ville,  will  leave  her  address  at  this  oflfice,  she  will  hear 
of  something  not  in  the  least  to  her  advantage."  He 
couldn't  advertise. 

It  was  midday  following  the  eve  of  his  confession 
to  his  father.  For  the  last  eleven  or  twelve  days,  ever 
since  he  had  seen  that  blessed  apparition  turn  with 
the  two  young  friends  into  Canal  Street  out  of  Bourbon 
—  he  had  been  venturing  daily,  for  luncheon,  just 
down  into  Bourbon  Street,  to  the  Christian  Women's 
Exchange.  Now,  by  all  the  laws  of  fortune  he  should 
in  that  time  have  seen  in  there  at  least  once  or  twice 
a  da}'  already,  the  face  he  was  ever  looking  for.  But 
he  had  not;  nor  did  he  to-day.  He  only  saw,  or 
thought  he  saw,  the  cashier  —  I  should  say  the  cash- 
ieress  —  glance  crosswise  at  him  with  eyes  that  seemed 
to  him  to  say  : 


THE  CHASE.  261 

"Fool;  sneak;  whelp;  'Cajim  ;  our  private  detec- 
tives are  watcbing  you." 

Both  rooms  and  the  veranda  were  full  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen  whose  faces  he  dared  not  lift  his  eyes  to 
look  into.  And  yet  even  in  that  frame  there  suddenly 
came  to  him  one  of  those  happy  thoughts  that  are  sup- 
posed to  be  the  inspirations  of  inventive  genius.  A 
pleasant  little  female  voice  near  him  said : 

' '  And  apartments  up-stairs  that  the}'  rent  to  ladies 
only ! ' '  And  instantly  the  thought  came  that  Mar- 
guerite and  her  mother  might  be  living  there.  One 
more  lump  of  bread,  a  final  gulp  of  coffee,  a  short 
search  for  the  waiter's  check,  and  he  stands  at  the 
cashieress's  desk.  She  makes  change  without  looking 
at  him  or  ceasing  to  tell  a  small  hunchbacked  spinster 
standing  by  about  somebody's  wedding.  But  sud- 
denly she  starts. 

"Oh!  wasn't  that  right?  You  gave  me  four  bits, 
didn't  you?  And  I  gave  you  back  two  bits  and  a 
picayune,  and  —  sir?  Does  Madame  who?  Oh!  yes. 
I  didn't  understand  3'ou ;  I'm  a  little  deaf  on  this  side ; 
scarlet  fever  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  I'm  not  the 
regular  cashier,  she's  gone  to  attend  the  wedding  of 
a  lady  friend.  Just  wait  a  moment,  please,  while  I 
make  change  for  these  ladies.  Oh,  dear !  ma'am,  is 
that  the  smallest  you've  got?  I  don't  believe  I  can 
change  that,  ma'am.  Yes  —  no  —  stop!  3'es,  I  can! 
no,  I  can't !  let's  see !  yes,  yes,  yes,  I  can ;  I've  got 
it ;  yes,  there  !  I  didn't  think  I  had  it."  She  turned 
again  to  Claude  with  sisterly  confidence.  "Excuse 
me  for  keeping  you  waiting  ;  haven't  I  met  you  at  the 


262  B  ON  A  VENTURE. 

Y.  M.  C.  A.  sociable?  Well,  you  must  excuse  me, 
but  I  was  sure  I  had.  Of  course  I  didn't  if  you  was 
never  there  ;  but  you  know  in  a  big  city  like  this  you're 
always  meeting  somebody  that's  ne-e-early  somebody 
else  that  you  know  —  oh!  didn't  you  ask  me  —  oh, 
yes !  Madame  Beausoleil !  Yes,  she  lives  here,  she 
and  her  daughter.  But  she's  not  in.  Oh  !  I'm  sorry. 
Neither  of  them  is  here.  She's  not  in  the  city ; 
hasn't  been  for  two  weeks.  They're  coming  back  ; 
we're  expecting  them  every  day.  She  heard  of  the 
death  of  a  relative  down  in  Terrebonne  somewhere. 
I  wish  they  would  come  back  ;  we  miss  them  here  ;  I 
judge  they're  relatives  of  j-ours,  if  I  don't  mistake  the 
resemblance  ;  you  seem  to  take  after  the  daughter ; 
wait  a  minute." 

Some  one  coming  up  to  pay  looked  at  Claude  to 
see  what  the  daughter  was  like,  and  the  young  man 
slipped  away,  outblushing  the  night  skj^  when  the 
marshes  are  afire. 

The  question  was  settled ;  settled  the  wrong  way. 
He  hurried  on  across  Canal  Street.  Marguerite  had 
not  been,  as  he  had  construed  the  inaccurate  state- 
ment, in  the  city  for  two  weeks.  Resemblances  need 
delude  him  no  longer.  He  went  on  into  Carondelet 
Street  and  was  drawing  near  the  door  and  stairway 
leading  to  his  friend's  studio  and  his  own  little  work- 
room above  it,  when  suddenly  from  that  very  stairway 
and  door  issued  she  whom,  alas  !  he  might  now  no 
longer  mistake  for  Marguerite,  yet  who,  none  the  less 
for  lessening  hope,  held  him  captive. 


WHO  SHE  WAS.  263 

CHAPTER   XIV. 

WHO    SHE    WAS. 

For  a  moment  somewhat  more  than  her  profile  shone 
u^Don  Claude's  bewildered  gaze. 

' '  I  shall  see  her  eye  to  eye  at  last !  ' '  shouted  his 
heart  within  :  but  the  next  moment  she  turned  away, 
and  with  two  companions  who  came  across  the  same 
threshold,  moved .  up  the  street,  and,  at  the  nearest 
corner,  vanished.  Her  companions  were  the  Ameri- 
can lady  and  the  artist.  Claude  wheeled,  and  hurried 
to  pass  around  the  square  in  the  opposite  dh-ection, 
and,  as  he  reached  the  middle  of  its  third  side,  saw 
the  artist  hand  them  into  the  street-car,  lift  his  hat,  and 
return  towards  the  studio.  The  two  men  met  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs.  The  Spaniard's  countenance  be- 
trayed a  restrained  elation. 

"You  goin'  see  a  picture  now,"  he  said,  in  a  mod- 
estly triumphant  tone.  "Come  in,"  he  added,  as 
Claude  would  have  passed  the  studio  door. 

They  went  in  together.  The  Spaniard  talked  ;  Claude 
scarcely  spoke.  I  cannot  repeat  the  conversation  liter- 
ally, but  the  facts  are  these  :  A  few  evenings  before, 
the  artist  had  been  one  of  the  guests  at  a  musical  party 
given  by  a  lady  whose  name  he  did  not  mention.  He 
happened  —  he  modestly  believed  it  accidental  —  to  be 
seated  beside  the  hostess,  when  a  young  lady  —  "Jung 
Creole  la-thy,"  he  called  her  —  who  was  spending  a  few 
days  with  her,  played  the  violin.     The  Spaniard's  deli- 


264  B  ON  A  VENTURE. 

cate  propriety  left  her  also  nameless  ;  but  he  c-tplained 
that,  as  he  understood,  she  was  from  the  Teche.  She 
played  charmingly  —  "  for  an  amateur,"  he  qualified: 
but  what  had  struck  him  more  than  the  music  was  her 
beauty,  her  figure,  her  picturesque  grace.  And  when 
he  confessed  his  delight  in  these,  his  hostess,  seem- 
ingly on  the  inspiration  of  the  moment,  said  : 

"Paint  her  picture!  Paint  her  just  sol  I'll  give 
you  the  order.  Not  a  mere  portrait  —  a  picture." 
And  he  had  agreed,  and  the  "  jung  "  lady  had  con- 
sented. The  two  had  but  just  now  left  the  studio. 
To-morrow  a  servant  would  bring  violin,  music-rack, 
etc.  ;  the  ladies  would  follow,  and  then  — 

"You  hear  music,  anyhow,"  said  the  artist.  That 
was  his  gentle  way  of  intimating  that  Claude  was  not 
invited  to  be  a  looker-on. 

On  tlie  next  day,  Claude,  in  his  nook  above,  with 
the  studio  below  shut  from  view  by  the  curtain  of  his 
inner  window,  heard  the  ladies  come.  He  knows  they 
are  these  two,  for  one  voice,  the  elder,  blooms  out  at 
once  in  a  gay  abundance  of  words,  and  the  other  speaks 
in  soft,  low  tones  that,  before  they  reach  his  ear,  run 
indistinguishably  together. 

Soon  there  comes  the  sound  of  tuning  the  violin, 
while  the  older  voice  is  still  heard  praising  one  thing 
and  another,  and  asking  careless  questions. 

"  I  suppose  that  cotton  cloth  covers  something  that 
is  to  have  a  public  unveiling  some  da}^  doesn't  it?  " 

Claude  cannot  hear  the  answer ;  the  painter  drops 
his  voice  even  below  its  usual  quiet  tone.  But  Claude 
knows  what  he  must  be  saying ;  that  the  cloth  covers 


WHO  SHE  WAS.  265 

merely  a  portrait  he  is  finishing  of  a  young  man  who 
has  sat  for  it  to  please  a  wifeless,  and,  but  for  him, 
childless,  and  fondly  devoted  father.  And  now  he  can 
tell  by  the  masculine  step,  and  the  lady's  one  or  two 
lively  words,  that  the  artist  has  drawn  away  the  cover- 
ing from  his  (Claude's)  own  portrait.  But  the  lady's 
young  companion  goes  on  tuning  her  instrument  — 
''  tink,  tink,  tink  ;  "  and  now  the  bow  is  drawn. 

'^Why,  how  singular!"  exclaims  the  elder  lady. 
*'  Why,  m}'  dear,  come  here  and  see  !  Somebody  has 
got  your  eyes  !  Why,  he's  got  your  whole  state  of 
mind,  a  reduplication  of  it.  And  —  I  declare,  he  looks 
almost  as  good  as  you  do  !     If  —  I  "  — 

The  voice  stops  short.  There  is  a  moment's  silence 
in  which  the  unseen  hearer  doubts  not  the  artist  is  mak- 
ing signs  that  yonder  window  and  curtain  are  all  that 
hide  the  picture's  original,  and  the  voice  says  again,  — 

"I  wish  you'd  paint  my  picture,"  and  the  violin 
sounds  once  more  its  experimental  notes. 

But  there  are  other  things  which  Claude  can  neither 
hear,  nor  see,  nor  guess.  He  cannot  see  that  the  elder 
lady  is  already  wondering  at,  and  guardedly  watching, 
an  agitation  betrayed  by  the  younger  in  a  tremor  of 
the  hand  that  fumbles  with  her  music-sheets  and  music- 
stand,  in  the  foot  that  trembles  on  the  floor,  in  the  red- 
dened cheek,  and  in  the  bitten  lip.  He  may  guess  that 
the  painter  sits  at  his  easel  with  kindling  eye  ;  but  he 
cannot  guess  that  just  as  the  elder  lady  is  about  to 
say,— 

"  My  dear,  if  j^ou  don't  feel  "  —  the  tremor  vanishes, 
the  lips  gently  set,  and  only  the  color  remains.     But 


266  B  ON  A  YEN  T  URE. 

he  hoars  the  first  soft  moan  of  the  tense  string  under 
the  bow,  and  a  second,  and  another ;  and  then,  as  he 
rests  his  elbows  upon  the  table  before  him,  and  covers 
his  face  in  his  trembhng  hands,  it  seems  to  him  as  if 
his  own  lost  heart  had  entered  into  that  vibrant  medium, 
and  is  pouring  thence  to  heaven  and  her  ear  its  praj-er 
of  love. 

Paint,  artist,  paint !  Let  your  brushes  fly  !  None 
can  promise  you  she  shall  ever  look  quite  like  this 
again.  Catch  the  lines,  —  the  waving  masses  and  dark 
coils  of  that  loose-bound  hair ;  the  poise  of  head  and 
neck  ;  the  eloquent  sway  of  the  form  ;  the  folds  of  gar- 
ments that  no  longer  hide,  but  are  illumined  by,  the 
plenitude  of  an  inner  life  and  grace  ;  the  elastic  feet ; 
the  ethereal  energy  and  discipline  of  arms  and  shoul- 
ders ;  the  supple  wrists  ;  the  very  fingers  quivering  on 
the  strings;  the  rapt  face,  and  the  love-inspired  eyes. 

Claude,  Claude  !  when  ever}^  bird  in  forest  and  field 
knows  the  call  of  its  mate,  can  you  not  guess  the  mean- 
ing of  those  strings?  3Iiist  she  open  those  sealed  lips 
and  call  your  very  name  —  she  who  would  rather  die 
than  call  it? 

He  does  not  understand.  Yet,  without  understand- 
ing, he  answers.  He  rises  from  his  seat ;  he  moves 
to  the  window;  he  will  not  tiptoe  or  peep;  he  will  be 
bold  and  bad.  Brazenly  he  lifts  the  curtain  and  looks 
down  ;  and  one,  one  only  —  not  the  artist  and  not  the 
patroness  of  art,  but  that  one  who  would  not  lift  her 
eyes  to  that  window  for  all  the  world's  wcaltii  —  knows 
he  is  standing  there,  listening  and  looking  down.  He 
counts  himself  all  unseen,  yet  presently  shame  drops 


WHO   SHE   WAS.  267 

the  curtain.  He  turns  away,  yet  stands  hearkening. 
The  music  is  about  to  end.  The  last  note  trembles  on 
the  air.  There  is  silence.  Then  some  one  moves  from 
a  chair,  and  then  the  single  cry  of  admiration  and 
delight  from  the  player's  companion  is  the  player's 
name, — 

"  Marguerite  Beausoleil !  " 

Hours  afterward  there  sat  Claude  in  the  seat  where 
he  had  sunk  down  when  he  heard  that  name.  The 
artist's  visitors  had  made  a  long  stay,  but  at  length 
the}'  were  gone.  And  now  Claude,  too,  rose  to  go 
out.  His  steps  were  heard  below,  and  presently  the 
painter's  voice  called  persuadingly  up  :  — 

"  St.  Pierre  !     St.  Pierre  !     Come,  see." 

They  stood  side  by  side  before  the  new  work. 
Claude  gazed  in  silence.  At  length  he  said,  still  gaz- 
ing : 

''I'll  buy  it  when  'tis  finish'." 

But  the  artist  explained  again  that  it  was  being 
painted  for  Marguerite's  friend. 

'Tor  what  she  want  it?"  demanded  Claude. 
The  Spaniard  smiled  and  intimated  that  the  lady  prob- 
ably thought  he  could  paint.  ''But  at  an}' rate,"  he 
went  on  to  say,  "  she  seemed  to  have  a  hearty  affection 
for  the  girl  herself,  whom,"  he  said,  "  she  had  de- 
scribed as  beinoj  as  oood  as  she  looked."  Claude 
turned  and  went  slowly  out. 

When  at  sunset  he  stood  under  the  honey-locust  tree 
on  the  levee  where  he  was  wont  to  find  his  father 
waiting  for  him,  he  found  himself  alone.  But  within 
speaking  distance  he  saw  St.  Pierre's  skiff  just  being 


268  BONAVENTURE. 

drawn  ashore  by  a  ragged  negro,  who  presently  turned 
and  came  to  him,  half-lifting  the  wretched  hat  that 
slouched  about  his  dark  brows,  and  smiling. 

'^  Sim  like  you  done  fo'got  me,"  he  said.  "  Don't 
3'ou  'member  how  I  use'  live  at  Belle  Alliance?  Yes, 
seh.  I's  de  one  what  show  Bonaventure  de  road  to 
Gran'  Point'.  Yes,  seh.  But  I  done  lef  dah  since 
Mistoo  Wallis  sole  de  place.  Yes,  seh.  An'  when  I 
meet  up  wid  you  papa  you  nevva  see  a  nigger  so  glad 
like  I  was.  xso,  seh.  An'  likewise  you  papa.  Yes, 
seh.  An'  he  ass  me  is  I  want  to  wiick  fo'  him,  an'  I 
see  he  ueedin'  he'p,  an'  so  I  tu'n  in  an'  he'p  him.  Oh, 
yes,  seh !  dass  mo'  'n  a  week,  now,  since  I  been 
wuckin'  fo'  you  papa." 

They  got  into  the  skiff  and  pushed  off,  the  negro 
alone  at  the  oars. 

"Pow'ful  strong  current  on  udder  side,"  he  said, 
pulling  quietly  up-stream  to  offset  the  loss  of  way  he 
must  make  presently  in  crossing  the  rapid  flood. 
'"  Mistoo  Claude,  I  see  a  gen'leman  dis  day  noon  what 
I  ain't  see'  befo'  since  'bout  six  j^ear'  an'  mo'.  I 
disremember  his  name,  but " 

*'  Tarbox?  "  asked  Claude  wilh  sudden  interest. 

"  Yes,  seh.  Dass  it  I  Tah-bawx.  Sim  like  any 
man  ought  to  'member  dat  name.  Him  an'  30U  papa 
done  gone  down  de  canal.  Yes,  seh ;  in  a  pirogue. 
He  come  in  a  big  hurry  an'  say  how  dey  got  a  big 
crevasse  up  de  river  on  dat  side,  an'  he  want  make 
you  papa  see  one  man  what  liviu'  on  Lac  Cataouach6. 
Yes,  seh.  An  you  papa  say  you  fine  you  supper  in  de 
pot.     An'  Mistoo  Tah-bawx  he  sa}'  he  want  you  teck 


CAN   THEY  CLOSE   THE  BREAK?  269 

one  boss  an'  ride  up  till  de  crevasse  an'  you  fine  one 
f  rien'  of  yose  yondah,  one  ingineer ;  an'  he  say  — 
Mistoo  Tah-bawx  —  how  he  'low  to  meet  up  wid  you 
at  you  papa'  house  to-morrow  daylight.  Yes,  seh ; 
Mistoo  Tah-bawx  ;  yes,  seh." 


CHAPTER    XV. 

CAN  THEY  CLOSE  THE  BREAK? 

The  towering  cypresses  of  the  far,  southern  swamps 
have  a  great  width  of  base,  from  which  they  narrow  so 
rapidly  in  the  first  seven  or  eight  feet  of  their  height, 
and  thence  upward  taper  so  gradually,  that  it  is  almost 
or  quite  impossible  for  an  axe-man,  standing  at  their 
roots,  to  chop  through  the  great  flare  that  he  finds 
abreast  of  him,  and  bring  the  trees  down.  But  when 
the  swamps  are  deep  in  water,  the  swamper  may  paddle 
up  to  these  trees,  whose  narrowed  waists  are  now  within 
the  swing  of  his  axe,  and  standing  up  in  his  canoe,  by 
a  marvel  of  balancing  skill,  cut  and  cut,  until  at  length 
his  watchful,  up-glancing  eye  sees  the  forest  giant  bow 
his  head.  Then  a  shove,  a  few  backward  sweeps  of 
the  paddle,  and  the  canoe  glides  aside,  and  the  great 
trunk  falls,  smiting  the  smooth  surface  of  the  water 
with  a  roar  that,  miles  away,  reaches  the  ear  like  the 
thunder  of  artillery.  The  tree  falls  :  but  if  the  woods- 
man has  not  known  how  to  judge  and  choose  wisely 
when  the  inner  wood  is  laid  bare  under  the  first  big 


270  BONAVENTURE. 

chip  that  flies,  there  are  many  chances  that  the  fallen 
tree  will  instantly  sink  to  the  bottom  of  the  water,  and 
cannot  be  rafted  out.  One  must  know  his  craft,  even 
in  Louisiana  swamps.     "  Knowledge  is  power." 

When  Zos^phine  and  Mr.  Tarbox  finished  out  that 
Sunday  twilight  walk,  they  talked,  after  leaving  the 
stile  behind,  only  on  business.  He  told  her  of  having 
lately  been,  with  a  certain  expert,  in  the  swamps  of 
Barataria,  where  he  had  seen  some  noble  cypress 
forests  tantalizingly  near  to  navigation  and  market, 
but  practically  a  great  way  off,  because  the  levees  of 
the  great  sugar  estates  on  the  Mississippi  River  shut 
out  all  deep  overflows.  Hence  these  forests  could  be 
bought  for,  seemingly,  a  m.ere  tithe  of  their  value. 
Now,  he  proposed  to  buy  such  a  stretch  of  them  along 
the  edge  of  the  shaking  prairie  north  of  Lake  Cata- 
ouache  as  would  show  on  his  part,  he  said,  "  caution, 
but  not  temerit}'." 

He  invited  her  to  participate.  "And  why?"  For 
the  simple  reason  that  the  expert,  and  engineer,  had 
dropped  the  remark  that,  in  his  opinion,  a  certain 
levee  could  not  possibly  hold  out  against  the  high 
water  of  more  than  two  or  three  more  j^ears,  and  that 
when  it  should  break  it  would  spread,  from  three  to 
nine  feet  of  water,  over  hundreds  of  square  miles  of 
swamp  forests,  prairies  tremblantes,  and  rice  and  sugar 
fields,  and  many  leagues  of  railway.  Zosephiue  had 
consented ;  and  though  Mr.  Tarbox  had  soon  after 
gone  upon  his  commercial  travels,  he  had  effected  the 
purchase  bj^  correspondence,  little  thinking  that  the 
first  news  he  should  hear  on  returnius:  to  New  Orleans 


THE   OUTLAW  AND    THE  FLOOD.  271 

would  be  that  the  remotely  anticipated  '-break"  had 
just  occurred. 

Aud  now,  could  and  would  the  breach  be  closed,  or 
must  all  Barataria  soon  be  turned  into,  and  remain  for 
months,  a  navigable  yellow  sea?  This,  Claude  knew, 
was  what  he  must  hasten  to  the  crevasse  to  discover, 
and  return  as  promptly  to  report  upon,  let  his  heart- 
strings draw  as  they  might  towards  the  studio  in  Ca- 
rondelet  Street  and  the  Christian  Women's  Exchange. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

THE  OUTLAW  AND  THE  FLOOD. 

"What  suffering  it  costs  to  be  a  coward !  Some 
days  before  the  crevasse  occurred,  he  whom  we  know 
as  the  pot-hunter  stood  again  on  the  platform  of  that 
same  little  railway  station  whence  we  once  saw  him 
vanish  at  sight  of  Bonaventure  Deschamps.  He  had 
never  ventured  there  since,  until  now.  But  there  was 
a  new  station-agent. 

His  Indian  squaw  was  dead.  A  rattlesnake  had 
given  her  its  fatal  sting,  and  the  outcast,  dreading  all 
men  and  the  coroner  not  the  least,  had,  silently  and 
alone,  buried  her  on  the  prairie. 

The  train  rolled  up  to  the  station  again  as  before. 
Claude's  friend,  the  surveyor,  stepped  off  with  a  cigar 
in  his  mouth,  to  enjoy  in  the  train's  momentary  stay 
the  delightful   air  that  came  across  the  open  prairie. 


272  BONAVENTUBE. 

The  pot-hunter,  who  had  got  rid  of  his  game,  ventured 
near  his  former  patron.  It  might  be  the  engineer 
could  give  him  work  whereby  to  earn  a  daj^'s  ready 
money.  He  was  not  disappointed.  The  engineer  told 
him  to  come  in  a  day  or  two,  b}'  the  waterways  the 
pot-hunter  knew  so  well,  across  the  swamps  and  prairies 
to  Bayou  Terrebonne  and  the  little  court-house  town 
of  Houma.     And  then  he  added  : 

"  I  heard  this  morning  that  somebody  had  been 
buying  the  swamp  laud  all  around  you  out  on  Lake 
Cataouache.     Is  it  so?" 

The  Acadian  looked  vacant  and  shook  bis  head. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other,  "a  Madame  Beausoleil,  or 
somebod — What's  the  matter?" 

"  All  aboard  !  "  cried  the  train  conductor. 

"The  fellow  turned  pale,"  said  the  surveyor,  as  he 
resumed  his  seat  in  the  smoking-car  and  the  landscape 
began  again  to  whirl  by. 

The  pot-hunter  stood  for  a  moment,  and  then  slowly, 
as  if  he  stole  away  from  some  sleeping  enemy,  left 
the  place.  Alarm  went  with  him  like  an  attendant 
ghost.  A  thousand  times  that  da}^,  in  the  dark  swamp, 
on  the  wide  prairie,  or  under  his  rush-thatch  on  the 
lake-side,  he  tortured  himself  with  one  question  :  Why 
had  she  —  Zos6phine  —  reached  away  out  from  Caran- 
cro  to  buy  the  uncultivable  and  primeval  wilderness 
round  about  his  lonely  hiding-place?  Hour  after  hour 
the  inexplicable  problem  seemed  to  draw  near  and 
nearer  to  him,  a  widening,  tightening,  dreamlike  terror, 
that,  as  it  came,  silently  pointed  its  finger  of  death  at 
him.     He  was  glad  enough  to  leave  his  cabin  next  day 


THE  OUTLAW  AND    THE  FLOOD.  273 

in  his  small,  swift  pirogue  —  shot-gun,  axe.  and  rifle 
his  only  companions  —  for  Terrebonne. 

It  chanced  to  be  noon  of  the  da}'  following,  when  he 
glided  up  the  sunny  Terrebonne  towards  the  parish 
seat.  The  shores  of  the  stream  have  many  beauties, 
but  the  Acadian's  eyes  were  alert  to  an}-  thing  but 
them.  The  deep  green,  waxen-leaved  casino  hedges  ; 
the  hedges  of  Cherokee  rose,  and  sometimes  of  rose 
and  casino  mingled  ;  the  fields  of  corn  and  sugar-cane  ; 
the  quaint,  railed,  floating  bridges  lying  across  the 
lazy  bayou  ;  the  orange-groves  of  aged,  giant  trees, 
their  dark  green  boughs  grown  all  to  a  tangle  with 
well-nigh  the  density  of  a  hedge,  and  their  venerable 
trunks  hairy  with  green-gray  lichens  ;  the  orange-trees 
again  in  the  door-yards,  with  neat  pirogues  set  upon 
racks  under  their  deep  shade  ;  the  indescribable  floods 
of  sunlight  and  caverns  of  shadow ;  the  clear,  brown 
depths  beneath  his  own  canoe  ;  or,  at  the  bottom,  the 
dark,  waving,  green-brown  tresses  of  water-weeds, — 
these  were  naught  to  him. 

But  the  human  presence  was  much ;  and  once,  when 
just  ahead  of  him  he  espied  a  3'ouug,  sun-bonneted 
woman  crouching  in  the  pouring  sunshine  be^'ond 
the  sod  of  the  bayou's  bank,  itself  but  a  few  inches 
above  the  level  of  the  stream,  on  a  little  pier  of  one 
plank  pushed  out  among  the  flags  and  reeds,  pounding 
her  washing  with  a  wooden  paddle,  he  stopped  the  dip 
of  his  canoe-paddle,  and  gazed  with  growing  trepida- 
tion and  slackening  speed.  At  the  outer  end  of  the 
plank,  the  habitual  dip  of  the  bucket  had  driven  aside 
the  water-lilies,  and  made  a  round,  glassy  space  that 


214:  BONAVENTUBE. 

reflected  all  but  perfectly  to  him  her  busy,  young, 
downcast  visage. 

*'  IIow  like  "  —  Just  then  she  lifted  her  head.  He 
started  as  though  his  boat  had  struck  a  snag.  How 
like  —  how  terribly  like  to  that  young  Zos6phine  whose 
ill-concealed  scorn  he  had  so  often  felt  in  da3S  —  in 
3'ears  —  long  gone,  at  Carancro !  This  was  not,  and 
could  not  be,  the  same  —  lacked  half  the  necessary 
years  ;  and  j'et,  in  the  J03'  of  his  relief,  he  answered 
her  bow  with  a  question,  "  Whose  was  yonder  house?  " 

She  replied  in  the  same  Acadian  French  in  which 
she  was  questioned,  that  there  dwelt,  or  had  dwelt, 
and  about  two  weeks  ago  had  died,  "  Monsieur  Robi- 
chaux."  The  pot-hunter's  paddle  dipped  again,  his 
canoe  shot  on,  and  two  hours  later  he  walked  with 
dust-covered  feet  into  Houma. 

The  principal  tavern  there  stands  on  that  corner  of 
the  court-house  square  to  which  the  swamper  would 
naturally  come  first.  Here  he  was  to  find  the  engineer. 
But,  as  with  slow,  diffident  step  he  set  one  foot  upon 
the  corner  of  the  threshold,  there  passed  quickly  by 
him  and  out  towards  the  court-house,  two  persons,  — 
one  a  man  of  a  county  court-room  look  and  with  a 
handful  of  documents,  and  the  other  a  woman  whom 
he  knew  at  a  glance.  Her  skirts  swept  his  ankles  as 
he  shrank  in  sudden  and  abject  terror  against  the  wall, 
3^et  she  did  not  see  him. 

He  turned  and  retreated  the  way  he  had  come,  noth- 
ing doubting  that  onh'  by  the  virtue  of  a  voodoo  charm 
which  he  carried  in  his  pocket  he  had  escaped,  for  the 
time  being,  a  plot  laid  for  his  capture.     For  the  small, 


THE   OUTLAW  AND    THE  FLOOD.  2«0 

neatly-robed  form  that  you  may  still  see  disappearing 
within  the  court-house  door  beside  the  limping  figure 
of  the  probate  clerk  is  Zosephine  Beausoleil.  She  will 
finish  the  last  pressing  matter  of  the  Robichaux  suc- 
cession now  in  an  hour  or  so,  and  be  off  on  the  little 
branch  railway,  whose  terminus  is  here,  for  New 
Orleans. 

When  the  pot-hunter  approached  Lake  Cataouache 
again,  he  made  on  foot,  under  cover  of  rushes  and 
reeds  taller  than  he,  a  wide  circuit  and  reconnoissance 
of  his  hut.  "While  still  a  long  way  off,  he  saw,  lighted  by 
the  sunset  ra^'s,  what  he  quickly  recognized  as  a  canoe 
drawn  half  out  of  the  water  almost  at  his  door.  He 
warily  drew  nearer.  Presently  he  stopped,  and  stood 
slowlj'  and  softly  shifting  his  footing  about  on  the  oozy 
soil,  at  a  little  point  of  shore  only  some  fift}'  yards 
away  from  his  cabin.  His  e^'es,  peering  from  the 
ambush,  descried  a  man  standing  by  the  pirogue  and 
searching  with  his  gaze  the  wide  distances  that  would 
soon  be  hidden  in  the  abrupt  fall  of  the  southern  night. 

The  pot-hunter  knew  him.  Not  by  name,  but  by 
face.  The  day  the  outlaw  saw  Bonaventure  at  the 
little  railway  station  this  man  was  with  him.  The 
name  the  pot-hunter  did  not  know  was  St.  Pierre. 

The  ambushed  man  shrank  a  step  backward  into  his 
hiding-place.  His  rifle  was  in  his  hand  and  he  noise- 
lessly cocked  it.  He  had  not  resolved  to  shoot ;  but 
a  rifle  is  of  no  use  until  it  is  cocked.  While  he  so 
stood,  another  man  came  into  view  and  to  the  first 
one's  side.  This  one,  too,  he  knew,  despite  the  soft 
hat  that  had  taken  the  place  of  the  silk  one  ;  for  this 


276  BOX  A  VEN  T  URE. 

was  Tarbox.  The  Acadian  was  confirmed  in  his  con- 
viction that  the  snrveyor's  invitation  for  him  to  come 
to  Houma  was  part  of  a  plot  to  entrap  him. 

While  he  still  looked  the  two  men  got  into  the  canoe 
and  St.  Pierre  paddled  swiftly  away.  The  pot-hunter 
let  down  the  hammer  of  his  gun,  shrank  awa}^  again, 
turned  and  hurried  through  the  tangle,  regained  his 
cano(3,  and  paddled  off.  The  men's  departure  from 
the  cabin  was,  in  his  belief,  a  ruse.  But  he  knew  how 
by  circuits  and  short  cuts  to  follow  after  them  unseen, 
and  this  he  did  until  he  became  convinced  that  they 
were  fairly  in  the  Company  Canal  and  gliding  up  its 
dark  colonnade  in  the  direction  whence  they  had  evi- 
dently come.  Then  he  returned  to  his  cabin  and  with 
rifle  cocked  and  with  slow,  stealthy  step  entered  it, 
and  in  headlong  haste  began  to  prepare  to  leave  it  for 
a  long  hiding-out. 

He  knew  ever}^  spot  of  land  and  water  for  leagues 
around,  as  a  bear  or  a  fox  would  know  the  region 
about  his  den.  He  had  in  mind  now  a  bit  of  dr}- 
ground  scarce  fifty  feet  long  or  wide,  deeply  hidden 
in  the  swamp  to  the  north  of  this  lake.  How  it  had 
ever  happened  that  this  dry  spot,  lifted  two  or  three 
feet  above  the  low  level  around  it,  had  been  made, 
whether  b}^  some  dumb  force  of  nature  or  by  the  hand 
of  men  yet  more  untamable  than  he,  had  never  crossed 
his  thought.  It  was  bej^ond  measure  of  more  value 
to  him  to  know,  by  what  he  had  seen  growing  on  it 
season  after  season,  that  for  many  a  long  year  no 
waters  had  overflowed  it.  In  the  lake,  close  to  his 
hut,  lay  moored  his  small  ceuterboard  lugger,  and  into 


THE  OUTLAW  AND   THE  FLOOD.  277 

this  he  presently  threw  his  few  appliances  and  sup- 
plies, spread  sail,  and  skimmed  away,  with  his  pirogue 
towing  after. 

His  loaded  rifle  laj"  within  instant  reach.  By  choice 
he  would  not  have  harmed  any  living  creature  that 
men  call  it  wrong  to  injure  ;  but  to  save  himself,  not 
only  from  death,  but  from  any  risk  of  death,  rightful 
or  wrongful,  he  would,  not  through  courage,  but  in 
the  desperation  of  frantic  cowardice,  have  killed  a 
hundred  men,  one  by  one. 

By  this  time  it  was  night ;  and  when  first  the  lugger 
and,  after  it  was  hidden  away,  the  pirogue,  had  carried 
him  up  a  slender  bayou  as  near  as  they  could  to  the 
point  he  vvished  to  reach,  he  had  still  to  drag  the 
loaded  pirogue  no  small  distance  through  the  dark, 
often  wet  and  almost  impenetrable  woods.  He  had 
taken  little  rest  and  less  sleep  in  his  late  journeyings, 
and  when  at  length  he  cast  himself  down  before  his  fire 
of  dead  fagots  on  the  raised  spot  he  had  chosen,  he 
slept  heavily.  He  felt  safe  from  man's  world,  at  least 
for  the  night. 

Only  one  thing  gave  him  concern  as  he  lay  down. 
It  was  the  fact  that  when,  with  the  old  woods-habit 
strong  on  him,  he  had  approached  his  selected  camp- 
ing ground,  with  such  wariness  of  movement  as  the 
dragging  pirogue  would  allow,  he  had  got  quite  in  sight 
of  it  before  a  number  of  deer  on  it  bounded  away.  He 
felt  an  unpleasant  wonder  to  know  what  their  unwill- 
ing boldness  might  signify. 

He  did  not  awake  to  replenish  his  fire  until  there 
were  only  a  few  live  embers  shining  dimly  at  his  feet. 


^iiS  B  ON  A  VEN  T  URE. 

He  rose  to  a  sitting  posture  ;  and  in  that  same  moment 
there  came  a  confusion  of  sound  —  a  trampling  through 
bushes  —  that  froze  his  blood,  and  robbed  his  open 
throat  of  power  to  cr3\  The  next  instant  he  knew  it 
was  but  those  same  deer.  But  the  first  intelligent 
thought  brought  a  new  fear.  These  most  timid  of 
creatures  had  made  but  a  few  leaps  and  stopped.  Pie 
knew  what  that  meant !  As  he  leaped  to  his  feet  the 
deer  started  again,  and  he  heard,  to  his  horror, — 
where  the  ground  had  been  dr}^  and  caked  when  he  lay 
down,  — the  plash  of  their  feet  in  water. 

Trembling,  he  drew  his  boots  on,  made  and  lighted 
a  torch,  and  in  a  moment  was  dragging  his  canoe  after 
him  in  the  direction  of  the  lugger.  Present^  his  steps, 
too,  were  plashing.  He  stooped,  waved  the  torch  low 
across  the  water's  surface,  and  followed  the  gleam 
with  his  scrutin3\  But  he  did  so  not  for  au}^  doubt 
that  he  would  see,  as  he  did,  the  yellow  flood  of  the 
Mississippi.  He  believed,  as  he  believed  his  existence, 
that  his  pursuers  had  let  the  river  in  upon  the  swamp, 
ruin  whom  they  might,  to  drive  him  from  cover. 

Presently  he  stepped  into  the  canoe,  cast  his  torch 
into  the  water,  took  his  paddle,  and  glided  unerringly 
through  a  darkness  and  a  wild  tangle  of  undergrowth, 
large  and  small,  where  you  or  I  could  not  have  gone 
ten  yards  without  being  lost.  He  emerged  success- 
fully from  the  forest  into  the  open  prairie,  and,  under 
a  sky  whose  stars  told  him  it  would  soon  be  day, 
glided  on  down  the  little  bayou  lane,  between  walls  of 
lofty  rushes,  up  which  he  had  come  in  the  evening, 
and  presently  found  the   lugger  as  he  had    left   her, 


THE  OUTLAW  AND   THE  FLOOD.  279 

with  her  light  mast  down,  hidden  among  the  brake 
canes  that  masked  a  little  cove. 

The  waters  were  already  in  the  prairie.  As  he 
boarded  the  little  vessel  at  the  stern,  a  raccoon  wad- 
dled in  noiseless  haste  over  the  bow,  and  splashed  into 
the  wet  covert  of  reeds  beyond.  If  only  to  keep  from 
sharing  his  quarters  with  all  the  refuge-hunting  vermin 
of  the  noisome  wilderness,  the  one  human  must  move 
on.  He  turned  the  lugger's  prow  towards  the  lake, 
and  spread  her  sails  to  the  faint,  cool  breeze.  But 
when  da}^  broke,  the  sail  was  gone. 

Far  and  wide  lay  the  pale  green  leagues  of  reeds 
and  bulrushes,  with  only  here  and  there  a  low  willow 
or  two  beside  some  unseen  lagoon,  or  a  sinuous  band 
of  darker  green,  where  round  rushes  and  myrtle  bushes 
followed  the  shore  of  some  hidden  bayou.  The  waters 
of  the  lake  were  gleaming  and  crinkling  in  tints  of 
lilac  and  silver  stolen  from  the  air ;  and  awa}^  to  the 
right,  and  yet  farther  to  the  left,  stood  the  dark 
phalanxes  of  c^'press  woods. 

Thus  had  a  thousand  mornings  risen  on  the  scene  in 
the  sight  of  the  outlaw.  Numberless  birds  fluttered 
from  place  to  place,  snatching  their  prey,  carolling, 
feeding  their  young,  chattering,  croaking,  warbling, 
and  swinsjins:  on  the  bendins;  rush.  But  if  vou  looked 
again,  strange  signs  of  nature's  mute  anguish  began 
to  show.  On  every  log  or  bit  of  smaller  drift  that 
rain-swollen  bayous  had  ever  brought  from  the  forest 
and  thrown  upon  their  banks  some  wild  tenant  of  the 
jungle,  hare  or  weasel,  cat,  otter,  or  raccoon,  had  taken 
refuge,  sometimes  alone,  but  oftener  sharing  it,  in  com- 


280  BONAVENTURE. 

mon  misery  and  silent  truce,  with  deadly  foes.  For 
under  all  that  expanse  of  green  beauty,  the  water, 
always  abundant,  was  no  longer  here  and  there,  but 
everywhere. 

See  yonder  reed  but  a  few  yards  away.  What  sin- 
gular dark  enlargement  of  stem  is  that  near  its  top, 
that  curious  spiral  growth? — growth!  It  is  a  great 
serpent  that  has  climbed  and  twined  himself  there, 
and  is  holding  on  for  the  life  he  loves  as  we  love 
ours.  And  see  !  Ou  a  reed  near  by  him,  another ; 
and  a  little  farther  off,  another ;  and  another  —  and 
another!  Where  were  our  e3^es  until  now?  The  sur- 
face of  the  vast  brake,  as  far  as  one  can  see  such  small 
things,  is  dotted  with  like  horrid  burdens.  And  some- 
where in  this  wild  desolation,  in  this  green  prospect  of 
a  million  deaths  waiting  in  silence  alike  for  harmful 
and  harmless  creatures,  one  man  is  hiding  from  all 
mankind. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 


WELL    HIDDEN. 


Of  all  the  teeming  multitudes  of  the  human  world, 
the  pot-hunter  knows  not  one  soul  who  is  on  his  side  ; 
not  one  whom  he  dare  let  see  his  face  or  come  between 
him  and  a  hiding-place.  The  water  is  rising  fast.  He 
dare  not  guess  how  high  it  will  come ;  but  rise  as  it 
may,  linger  at  its  height  as  it  may,  he  will  not  be 
driven  out.     In  his  belief  a  hundred  men  are  ready,  at 


WELL  HIDDEN.  281 

every  possible  point  where  bis  foot  could  overstep  the 
line  of  this  vast  inundation,  to  seize  him  and  drag  him 
to  the  gallows.  Ah,  the  gallows  !  Not  being  dead  — 
not  God's  anger  —  not  eternal  burnings ;  but  simply 
facing  death  !  The  gallows  !  The  tree  above  his  head 
—  the  rope  around  his  neck  —  the  signal  about  to  be 
spoken  —  the  one  wild  moment  after  it !  These  keep 
him  here. 

He  has  taken  down  sail  and  mast.  The  rushes  are 
twelve  feet  high.  They  hide  him  well.  With  oars, 
mast,  and  the  like,  he  has  contrived  something  by 
which  he  can  look  out  over  their  tops.  He  has  powder 
and  shot,  coffee,  salt,  and  rice  ;  he  will  not  be  driven 
out !  At  night  he  spreads  his  sail  and  seeks  the  open 
waters  of  the  lake,  where  he  can  sleep,  by  littles,  with- 
out being  overrun  by  serpents  ;  but  when  day  breaks, 
there  is  no  visible  sign  of  his  presence.  Yet  he  is 
where  he  can  see  his  cabin.  It  is  now  deep  in  the 
water,  and  the  flood  is  still  rising.  He  is  quite  sure 
no  one  has  entered  it  since  he  left  it.  But  —  the  strain 
of  perpetual  watching  ! 

When  at  dawn  of  the  fifth  day  he  again  looked  for 
cover  in  the  prairie,  the  water  was  too  high  to  allow 
him  concealment,  and  he  sought  the  screen  of  some 
willows  that  fringed  the  edge  of  the  swamp  forest, 
anchoring  in  a  few  rods'  width  of  open  water  between 
them  and  the  woods.  He  did  not  fear  to  make,  on 
the  small  hearth  of  mud  and  ashes  he  had  improvised 
in  his  lugger,  the  meagre  fire  needed  to  prepare  his 
food.  Its  slender  smoke  quickly  mingled  with  the 
hazy  vapors  and  shadows  of  the  swamp.     As  he  cast 


282  BONAVENTUBE. 

his  eye  abroad,  he  found  nowhere  anj^  sign  of  human 
approach.  Here  and  there  the  tops  of  the  round  rushes 
still  stood  three  feet  above  the  water,  but  their  slender 
needles  were  scarcely  noticeable.  Far  and  near,  over 
prairie  as  over  lake,  lay  the  unbroken  yellow  flood. 
There  was  no  flutter  of  wings,  no  whistle  of  feathered 
mate  to  mate,  no  call  of  nestlings  from  the  ruined 
nests.  Except  the  hawk  and  vulture,  the  birds  were 
gone.  Untold  thousands  of  dumb  creatures  had  clung 
to  life  for  a  time,  but  now  were  devoured  by  birds  of 
prey  and  b}^  alligators,  or  were  drowned.  Thousands 
still  lived  on.  Behind  him  in  the  swamp  the  wood- 
birds  remained,  the  gray  squirrel  still  barked  and 
leaped  from  tree  to  tree,  the  raccoon  came  down  to 
fish,  the  plundering  owl  still  hid  himself  through  the 
bright  hours,  and  the  chilled  snake  curled  close  in  the 
warm  folds  of  the  hanging  moss.  Nine  feet  of  water 
below.  In  earlier  days,  to  the  northward  through  the 
forest,  many  old  timbers  rejected  in  railway  construc- 
tion or  repair,  with  dead  logs  and  limbs,  had  been 
drifted  together  by  heav}^  rains,  and  had  gathered  a 
covering  of  soil ;  cauebrake,  luxurious  v\'illow-bushes, 
and  tough  grasses  had  sprung  up  on  them  and  bound 
them  with  their  roots.  These  floating  islands  the  flood, 
now  covering  the  dense  underbrush  of  the  swamp,  lifted 
on  its  free  surface,  and,  in  its  slow  creep  southward, 
bore  through  the  pillared  arcades  of  the  cypress  wood 
and  out  over  the  submerged  prairies.  Many  a  cower- 
ing deer  in  those  last  few  days  that  had  made  some 
one  of  these  green  fragments  of  the  drowned  land  a 
haven  of  despair,  the  human  castaway  left  unharmed. 


WELL   HIDDEN.  283 

Of  all  sentient  creatnres  in  that  deluge  he  was 
suffering  most.  He  was  gaunt  and  haggard  with 
watching.  The  thought  of  pursuit  bursting  suddenly 
around  him  now  fastened  permanentlj'  upon  his  ima- 
gination. He  feared  to  sleep.  From  the  direction  of 
the  open  water  surprise  seemed  impossible  ;  but  from 
the  forest !  what  instant  might  it  not  ring  with  the 
whoop  of  discover}',  the  many-voiced  halting  challenge, 
and  the  glint  of  loaded  Winchester?  And  another 
fear  had  come.  Many  a  man  not  a  coward,  and  as 
used  to  the  sight  of  serpents  as  this  man,  has  never 
been  able  to  be  other  than  a  coward  concerning  them. 
The  pot-hunter  held  them  in  terror.  It  was  from  fear 
of  them  that  he  had  lighted  his  torch  the  night  of  his 
bivouac  in  the  swamp.  Only  a  knowledge  of  their 
ordinary  haunts  and  habits  and  the  art  of  avoiding 
them  had  made  the  swamp  and  prairie  life  bearable. 
Now  all  was  changed.  They  were  driven  from  their 
dens.  In  the  forest  one  dared  not  stretch  forth  the 
hand  to  lay  it  upon  any  tangible  thing  until  a  searching 
glance  had  failed  to  find  the  glittering  eye  and  forked 
tongue  that  meant  "  Beware  !  "  In  the  flooded  prairie 
the  willow-trees  were  loaded  with  the  knotted  folds  of 
the  moccasin,  the  rattlesnake,  and  I  know  not  how 
many  other  sorts  of  deadly  or  only  loathsome  serpents. 
Some  little  creatures  at  the  bottom  of  the  water,  feed- 
ing on  the  soft  white  part  of  the  round  rush  near  its 
root,  every  uo^v  and  then  cut  a  stem  free  from  its  base, 
and  let  it  spring  to  the  surface  and  float  away.  Often 
a  snake  had  wrapped  himself  about  the  end  above  the 
water,   and   when  this  refuge  gave  way  and   drifted 


284  BONAVENTURE. 

abroad  he  would  cling  for  a  time,  until  some  less  for- 
lorn hope  came  in  siglit,  and  then  swim  for  it.  Thus 
scarce  a  minute  of  the  day  passed,  it  seemed,  but  one, 
two,  or  three  of  these  creatures,  making  for  their  fel- 
low-castaway's boat,  wore  turned  away  by  nervous 
waving  of  arms.  The  nights  had  proved  that  they 
could  not  climb  the  lugger's  side,  and  when  he  was 
in  her  the  canoe  was  laid  athwart  her  gunwales  ;  but  at 
night  he  had  to  drop  the  bit  of  old  iron  that  served 
for  an  anchor,  and  the  ver}'  first  night  a  large  moccasin 
—  not  of  the  dusky  kind  described  in  books,  but  of 
that  yet  deadlier  black  sort,  an  ell  in  length,  which  tlie 
swampers  call  the  Congo  —  came  up  the  anchor-rope. 
The  castaway  killed  it  with  an  oar ;  but  after  that 
who  would  have  slept? 

About  sunset  of  the  fifth  day,  thougli  it  was  bright 
and  beautiful,  the  hunter's  cunning  detected  the  first 
subtle  signs  of  a  coming  storm.  He  looked  about  him 
to  see  what  provision  was  needed  to  meet  and  weather 
its  onset.  On  the  swamp  side  the  loftiest  cypresses, 
should  the  wind  bring  any  of  tliem  down,  would  not 
more  than  cast  the  spray  of  their  fall  as  far  as  his 
anchorage.  The  mass  of  willows  on  the  prairie  side 
was  nearer,  l)ut  its  trees  stood  lov\%  —  alread}'  here  and 
there  the  branches  touched  the  water ;  the  hurricane 
might  tear  away  some  boughs,  but  could  do  no  more. 
He  shortened  the  anchor-rope,  and  tried  the  hold  of 
the  anchor  on  tlie  bottom  to  make  sure  the  lugger 
might  not  swing  into  the  willows,  for  in  every  fork  of 
every  bough  was  a  huge  dark  mass  of  serpents  plaited 
and  piled  one  upon  another,  and  ready  at  any  moment 


WELL   HIDDEN.  285 

to  glide  apart  towards  any  new  shelter  that  might  be 
reached. 

While  e^^e  and  hand  were  thus  engaged,  the  hunter's 
ear  was  attentive  to  sounds  that  he  had  been  hearing 
for  more  than  an  hour.  Tliese  were  the  puff  of  'scape- 
pipes  and  plash  of  a  paddle-wheel,  evidently  from  a 
small  steamer  in  the  Company  Canal.  She  was  com- 
ing down  it ;  that  is,  from  the  direction  of  the  river 
and  the  cit}'. 

Whither  was  she  bound?  To  some  one  of  the  hun- 
dred or  more  plantations  and  plantation  homes  that  the 
far-reaching  crevasse  had  desolated  ?  Likely  enough. 
In  such  event  she  would  not  come  into  view,  although 
for  some  time  now  he  had  seen  faint  shreds  of  smoke  in 
the  sk}'  ov^er  a  distant  line  of  woods.  But  it  filled  him 
with  inward  tremors  to  know  that  if  she  chose  to  leave 
the  usual  haunts  of  navigation  on  her  left,  and  steam 
out  over  the  submerged  prairies  and  the  lake,  and  into  the 
very  shadow  of  these  cypresses,  she  couhl  do  it  without 
fear  of  a  snag  or  a  shallow.  He  w^atched  anxiously  as 
the  faint  smoke  reached  a  certain  point.  If  the  next 
thin  curl  should  rise  farther  on,  it  would  mean  safety. 
But  when  it  came  it  seemed  to  be  in  the  same  place  as 
the  last ;  and  another  the  same,  and  yet  another  the 
same :  she  was  making  almost  a  straight  line  for  the 
spot  where  he  stood.  Only  a  small  low  point  of  forest 
broke  the  line,  and  presentl}',  far  away,  she  slowly 
came  out  from  behind  it. 


286  BONAVENTURE. 

CHAPTER    XVIII. 

THE    TORNADO. 

The  Acadian  stooped  at  once  and  with  a  quick 
splash  launched  his  canoe.  A  minute  later  he  was  in 
it,  gliding  along  and  just  within  the  edge  of  the  forest 
where  it  swept  around  nearl}^  at  right  angles  to  the 
direction  in  which  the  steamboat  was  coming.  Thus 
he  could  watch  the  approaching  steamer  unseen,  while 
every  moment  putting  distance  between  himself  and 
the  lugger. 

The  strange  visitor  came  on.  How  man}^  men  there 
were  on  her  lower  deck  I  Were  they  really  negroes,  or 
had  they  blackened  their  faces,  as  men  sometimes  do 
when  the}'  are  going  to  hang  a  poor  devil  in  the  woods? 
On  the  upper  deck  are  two  others  whoso  faces  do  not 
seem  to  be  blackened.  But  a  moment  later  they  are 
the  most  fearful  sight  of  all ;  for  only  too  phiinl}'  does 
the  fugitive  see  that  they  are  the  same  two  men  who 
stood  before  the  door-way  of  his  hut  six  days  before. 
And  see  how  many  canoes  on  the  lower  deck  ! 

While  the  steamer  is  ^X't  half  a  mile  away  from  the 
hidden  lugger,  her  lamps  and  fires  and  their  attendant 
images  in  the  water  beneath  glow  softly  in  the  fast 
deepening  twilight,  and  the  night  comes  swiftly  down. 
The  air  is  motionless.  Across  the  silent  waste  an  en- 
gine bell  jangles  ;  the  puff  of  steam  ceases  ;  the  one 
plashing  paddle-wheel  at  the  stern  is  still ;  the  lights 
glide  more  and  more  slowly ;  with  a  great  crash  and 


TUB   TORNADO.  287 

rumble,  that  is  answered  by  the  echoing  woods,  the 
anchor-chain  runs  out  its  short  measure,  and  the 
steamer  stops. 

Gently  the  pot-hunter's  paddle  dipped  again,  and 
the  pirogue  moved  back  towards  the  lugger.  It  may 
be  that  the  flood  was  at  last  numbing  his  fear,  as  it  had 
so  soon  done  that  of  all  the  brute-life  around  him  ;  it 
was  in  his  mind  to  do  something  calling  for  more  cour- 
age than  he  had  ever  before  commanded  in  his  life, 
save  on  that  one  day  in  Carancro,  when,  stung  to 
madness  by  the  taunts  of  a  brave  man,  and  driven  to 
the  wall,  he  had  grappled  and  slain  his  tormentor. 
He  had  the  thought  now  to  return,  and  under  cover  of 
the  swamp's  deep  outer  margin  of  shadow,  silently  lift 
into  the  canoe  the  bit  of  iron  that  anchored  the  lugger, 
and  as  noiselessly  draw  her  miles  away  to  another 
covert ;  or  if  the  storm  still  held  back,  even  at  length 
to  step  the  mast,  spread  the  sail,  and  put  the  horizon 
between  him  and  the  steamer  before  daybreak.  This 
he  had  now  started  to  do,  and  would  do,  if  only  courage 
would  hold  on  and  the  storm  hold  off. 

For  a  time  his  canoe  moved  swiftly  ;  but  as  he  drew 
near  the  lugger  his  speed  grew  less  and  less,  and  e3^e 
and  ear  watched  and  hearkened  with  their  intensest 
might.  He  could  hear  talking  on  the  steamer.  There 
was  a  dead  calm.  He  had  come  to  a  spot  just  inside 
the  wood,  abreast  of  the  lugger.  His  canoe  slowly 
turned  and  pointed  towards  her,  and  then  stood  still. 
He  sat  there  with  his  paddle  in  the  water,  longing  like 
a  dumb  brute  ;  longing,  and,  without  a  motion,  strug- 
gling for  courage  enough  to  move  forward.     It  would 


288  BONAVENTUEE. 

not  come.  His  heart  jiirred  his  frame  with  its  beating. 
He  coukl  not  stir. 

As  he  looked  out  upon  the  sky  a  soft,-  faint  tremor 
of  lioflit  olimmered  for  a  moment  over  it,  without  dis- 
turbing  a  shadow  below.  The  paddle  stii  red  gently, 
and  the  canoe  slowly  drew  back  ;  the  storm  was  coming 
to  betray  him  with  its  lightnings.  In  tlie  black  forest's 
edge  the  pot-hunter  lingered  trembling.  Oh  for  the 
nerve  to  take  a  brave  man's  chances  !  A  little  cour- 
age would  have  saved  his  life.  He  wiped  the  dew 
from  his  brow  with  his  sleeve  ;  every  nerve  had  let  go. 
Again  there  came  across  the  water  the  very  words  of 
those  who  talked  together  on  the  steamer.  They  were 
saying  that  the  felling  of  trees  would  begin  m  the 
morning ;  but  they  spoke  in  a  tongue  which  Acadians 
of  late  years  had  learned  to  understand,  though  many 
hated  it,  but  of  which  he  had  never  known  twenty' 
words,  and  what  he  had  known  were  now  forgotten  — 
the  English  tongue.  Even  without  courage,  to  have 
known  a  little  English  would  have  made  the  difference 
between  life  and  death.  Another  glimmer  spread 
dimly  across  the  sky,  and  a  faint  murmur  of  far-off 
thunder  came  to  the  ear.  Jie  turned  the  pirogue  and 
fled. 

Soon  the  stars  are  hidden.  A  light  breeze  seems 
rather  to  tremble  and  hang  poised  than  to  blow.  The 
rolling  clouds,  the  dark  wilderness,  and  the  watery 
waste  shine  out  every  moment  in  the  wide  gleam  of 
lightnings  still  hidden  by  the  wood,  and  are  wrapped 
again  in  ever-thickcuing  darkness  over  which  thunders 
roll  and  jar,  and  answer  one  another  across  the  sky. 


THE   TORNADO.  289 

Tlien,  like  fi  charge  of  ten  thousand  lancers,  come  the 
wind  and  the  rain,  their  onset  covered  by  all  tlie  artil- 
lery of  heaven.  The  liglitnings  leap,  hiss,  and  blaze  ; 
the  thunders  crack  and  roar ;  the  rain  lashes ;  the 
waters  writhe  ;  the  wind  smites  and  howls.  For  five, 
for  ten,  for  twenty  minutes,  —  for  an  hour,  for  two 
hours,  — the  sky  and  the  flood  are  never  for  an  instant 
wholly  dark,  or  the  thunder  for  one  moment  silent ; 
but  while  the  universal  roar  sinks  and  swells,  and  the 
wide,  vibrant  illumination  shows  all  things  in  ghostly 
half-concealment,  fresh  floods  of  liglitning  ever}'  mo- 
ment rend  the  dim  curtain  and  leap  forth  ;  the  glare 
of  day  falls  upon  the  swaying  wood,  the  reeling,  bow- 
ing, tossing  willows,  the  seething  waters,  the  whirling 
rain,  and  in  the  midst  the  small  form  of  the  distressed 
steamer,  her  revolving  paddle-wheels  toiling  behind  to 
lighten  the  strain  upon  her  anchor-chains  ;  then  all 
are  dim  ghosts  again,  while  a  peal,  as  if  the  heavens 
were  rent,  rolls  off  around  the  sky,  comes  back  in 
shocks  and  throbs,  and  sinks  in  a  long  roar  that  before 
it  can  die  is  swallowed  up  in  the  next  flash  and  peal. 

The  deserted  lugger  is  riding  out  the  tornado. 
"Whirled  one  moment  this  waj'  and  another  that,  now 
and  again  taking  in  water,  her  forest-shelter  breaks  the 
force  of  many  a  gust  that  would  have  destroyed  her 
out  in  the  open.  But  in  the  height  of  the  storm  her 
poor  substitute  for  an  anchor  lets  go  its  defective  hold 
on  the  rushy  bottom  and  drags,  and  the  little  vessel 
backs,  backs,  into  the  willows.  She  escapes  such  en- 
tanglement as  would  capsize  her,  and  by  and  b}',  when 
the  wind  lulls  for  a  moment  and  then  comes  with  all 


200  J30.V.1  VENTURE. 

its  wratli  from  the  opposite  direction,  she  swings  clear 
again  and  drags  back  nearly  to  lier  first  mooring  and 
lies  there,  swinging,  tossing,  and  surviving  still,  —  a 
den  of  snakes. 

The  tempest  was  still  fierce,  though  abating,  and 
the  lightning  still  flashed,  but  less  constantly,  when 
at  a  point  near  the  lugger  the  pirogue  came  out  of  the 
forest,  laboring  against  the  wind  and  half-filled  with 
water.  On  the  face  of  the  storm-beaten  man  in  it 
each  gleam  of  the  lightning  showed  the  pallid  confes- 
sion of  mortal  terror.  Where  that  frail  shell  had  been, 
or  how  often  it  had  cast  its  occupant  out,  no  one  can 
ever  know.  He  was  bareheaded  and  barefooted. 
One  cannot  swim  in  boots  ;  without  them,  even  one 
who  has  never  dared  learn  how  may  hope  to  swim  a 
a  little. 

In  the  darkness  he  drew  alongside  the  lugger,  rose, 
balanced  skilfully,  seized  his  moment,  and  stepped 
safely  across  her  gunwale.  A  slight  lurch  caused  him 
to  throw  his  arms  out  to  regain  his  poise  ;  the  line  by 
which  he  still  held  the  canoe  straightened  out  its  length 
and  slipped  from  his  grasp.  In  an  instant  the  pirogue 
was  gone.  A  glimmer  of  lightning  showed  her  driv- 
ingc  off  side  wise  before  the  wind.  But  it  revealed 
another  sight  also.  It  was  dark  again,  black  ;  but  the 
outcast  stood  freezing  with  horror  and  fright,  gazing 
just  in  advance  of  his  feet  and  waiting  for  the  next 
gleam.  It  came,  brighter  than  the  last ;  and  scarcely 
a  step  before  him  he  saw  three  great  serpents  moving 
towards  the  spot  that  gave  him  already  such  slender 
footing.     He  recoiled  a  step  —  another  ;  but  instantly 


THE   TORNADO.  291 

as  he  made  the  second  a  cold,  living  form  was  under 
his  foot,  its  folds  flew  round  his  ankle,  and  once ! 
twice  !  it  struck  !  With  a  frantic  effort  he  spurned  it 
from  him  ;  all  in  the  same  instant  a  blaze  of  lightning 
discovered  the  maimed  form  and  black  and  red  mark- 
ings of  a  "  bastard  horn  snake,"  and  with  one  piercing 
wail  of  despair,  that  was  drowned  in  the  shriek  of  the 
wind  and  roar  of  the  thunder,  he  fell. 

A  few  hours  later  the  wnnds  were  still,  the  stars 
were  out,  a  sweet  silence  had  fallen  upon  water  and 
wood,  and  from  her  deck  the  watchmen  on  the  steamer 
could  see  in  the  north-eastern  sky  a  broad,  soft,  illumi- 
nation, and  knew  it  was  the  lights  of  slumbering  New 
Orleans,  eighteen  miles  away. 

By  and  by,  farther  to  the  east,  anotlier  brightness 
began  to  grow  and  gather  tliis  light  into  its  out- 
stretched wings.  In  the  nearest  wood  a  soft  twitter 
came  from  a  single  tiny  bird.  Another  voice  answered 
it.  A  different  note  came  from  a  third  quarter  ;  there 
were  three  or  four  replies  ;  the  sky  turned  to  blue,  and 
began  to  flush ;  a  mocking-bird  flew  out  of  the  woods 
on  her  earliest  quest  for  family  provision  ;  a  thrush 
bescan  to  sino; ;  and  in  a  moment  more  the  whole  forest 
was  one  choir. 

What  wonderful  purity  was  in  the  fragrant  air; 
what  color  was  on  the  calm  waters  and  in  the  deep 
sky ;  how  beautiful,  how  gentle  was  Nature  after  her 
transport  of  passion  !  Shall  we  ever  subdue  her  and 
make  her  always  submissive  and  compliant?  Who 
knows  ?  Who  knows  what  man  may  do  with  her  when 
once  he  has  got  self,  the  universal  self,  under  perfect 


292  BONAVENTURE. 

mastery?  See  j^onder  huge  bull-alligator  swimming 
hitherward  out  of  the  swamp.  Eveu  as  you  point  he 
turns  again  in  alarm  and  is  gone.  Once  he  was  man's 
terror,  Leviathan.  The  very  lions  of  Africa  and  the 
grizzlies  of  the  Rockies,  so  they  tell  us,  are  no  longer 
the  bold  enemies  of  man  they  once  were.  "  Subdue 
the  earth  "  — it  is  being  done.  Science  and  art,  com- 
merce and  exploration,  are  but  parts  of  religion. 
Help  us,  brothers  all,  with  every  possible  discovery 
and  invention  to  complete  the  conquest  begun  in  that 
lost  garden  whence  man  and  woman  first  came  forth, 
not  for  vengeance  but  for  love,  to  bruise  the  serpent's 
head.  But  as  yet,  both  within  us  and  without  us, 
w4iat  terrible  revolts  doth  Nature  make  !  what  awful 
victories  doth  she  have  over  us,  and  then  turn  and 
bless  and  serve  us  again ! 

As  the  sun  was  rising,  one  of  the  timber-cutters 
from  the  steamer  stood  up  in  his  canoe  about  half  a 
mile  away,  near  the  wood  and  beside  some  willows, 
and  halloed  and  beckoned.  And  when  those  on  the 
steamer  hearkened  he  called  again,  bidding  them  tell 
"  de  boss"  that  he  had  found  a  canoe  adri:t,  an  an- 
chored boat,  and  a  white  man  in  her,  dead. 

Tarbox  and  St.  Pierre  came  in  a  skiff. 

"Is  he  drowned?"  asked  Mr.  Tarbox,  while  still 
some  distance  off. 

"  Been  struck  by  lightnin'  sim  like,"  replied  the 
negro  who  had  found  the  body.  —  "  Watch  out,  Mistoo 
Tah-bawx!"  he  added,  as  the  skiff  drew  near;  ''  dat 
boat  dess  lousy  wid  snake'  !  " 

Tarbox  stood  up  in  the  skiff  and  looked  sadly  upon 


THE   TORNADO.  293 

the  dead  face.  "It's  our  man,"  he  said  to  St. 
Pierre. 

"  Dass  what  I  say  !  "  exehiimed  the  uegi'o.  "  Yes, 
seh,  so  soon  I  see  him  I  say,  mos'  sholy  dass  de  same 
man  what  Mistoo  Tah-bawx  lookin'  faw  to  show  him 
'roun'  *bout  de  swamp !  Yes,  seh,  not-instandin'  I 
never  see  him  befo'  !  No,  seh.  —  Lawd  I  look  yondeh  ! 
look  dat  big  bahsta'd  hawn-snake !  He  kyant  git 
away :  he's  hu't !  Lawd !  dass  what  kill  dat  man  ! 
Dat  man  trawmp  on  him  in  de  dark,  and  he  strack  him 
wid  his  hawny  tail !  Look  at  dem  fo'  li'l'  spot'  on  de 
man'  foot !  Now,  Mistoo  Tah-bawx  !  You  been  talk' 
'bout  dem  ah  bahsta'd  hawn-snake  not  pizen  !  WeU, 
mos'  sholy  dey  bite  ain't  pizen  ;  but  if  dat  hawn  on  de 
een  of  his  tail  dess  on'y  tetch  you,  you'  gone  !  Look 
at  dat  man !  Kill'  him  so  quick  de}'  wa'n't  time  for 
de  place  to  swell  whah  he  was  hit!"  But  Tarbox 
quietly  pointed  out  to  St.  Pierre  that  the  tiny  wounds 
were  made  by  the  reptile's  teeth. 

"The  coroner's  verdict  will  probably  be  'privation 
and  exposure,'  "  said  he  softly;  "but  it  ought  to  be, 
'  killed  by  fright  and  the  bite  of  a  harmless  snake.'  " 

On  his  murmured  suggestion,  St.  Pierre  gave  orders 
that,  with  one  exception,  every  woodsman  go  to  his 
tree-felling,  and  that  the  lugger  and  canoe,  with  the 
dead  man  lying  untouched,  be  towed  by  skiff  and  a 
single  pair  of  oars  to  the  head  of  the  canal  for  inquest 
and  burial. 

"  I'll  go  with  him,"  said  Tarbox  softly  to  St.  Pierre. 
"We  owe  him  all  we're  going  to  get  out  of  these 
woods,  and  I  owe  him  a  great  deal  more."     When  a 


294  BONAVENTURE. 

little  later  he  was  left  for  a  moment  without  a  hearer, 
he  said  to  the  prostrate  form,  "  Poor  fellow  !  And  to 
think  I  had  her  message  to  3'ou  to  come  out  of  this 
swamp  and  begin  to  live  the  life  of  a  live  man  !  " 

The  rude  funeral  moved  away,  and  soon  the  woods 
were  ringing  with  the  blow  of  axes  and  the  shout  and 
song  of  black  timber-men  as  gajiy  as  though  there 
never  had  been  or  was  to  be  a  storm  or  a  death. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 
"tears  and  such  things.' 


Marguerite  and  her  friend  had  no  sooner  taken 
their  seats  to  drive  home  from  the  studio  the  dav  the 
sketch  was  made  than  Marguerite  began  a  perfect 
prattle.  Her  eyes  still  shone  exaltedl}',  and  leaped 
and  fell  and  darkened  and  brightened  with  more  than 
the  swift  variety  of  a  fountain  in  the  moonlight,  while 
she  kept  trying  in  vain  to  meet  her  companion's  looks 
with  a  moment's  steady  regard. 

Claude  was  found  !  and  she  trembled  with  delight. 
But,  alas  !  he  had  heard  her  passionate  call  and  yet 
stood  still ;  had  looked  down  upon  her  in  silence,  and 
drawn  again  the  curtain  between  them.  She  had 
thought  until  the  last  moment,  "He  will  come;  he 
will  confront  us  as  we  pass  out  the  door  —  will  over- 
take us  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  —  on  the  sidewalk — at 
the  carriage  window."     But  it  had  not  been  so;  and 


''TEARS  AND  SUCH   TUINGS:'  295 

now  they  were  gone  from  the  place  ;  and  here  sat  this 
friend,  this  gay,  cynical  knower  of  men's  and  women's 
wa3^s,  answering  her  chatter  in  short,  smiling  re- 
sponses, with  a  steady  eye  fixed  on  her,  and  reading. 
Marguerite  believed,  as  plainly  as  if  it  were  any  of  the 
sign-boards  along  the  rattling  street,  the  writing  on  her 
fluttering  heart.  And  so,  even  while  she  trembled 
with  strange  delight,  pain,  shame,  and  alarm  pleaded 
through  her  dancing  glances,  now  by  turns  and  now  iu 
confusion  together,  for  mercy  and  concealment.  But 
in  fact,  as  this  friend  sat  glancing  upon  the  young  face 
beside  her  with  secret  sympathy  and  admiration,  it 
was  only  this  wild  fear  of  betrayal  that  at  length 
betrayed. 

Reaching  the  house,  the  street  door  was  hardly  shut 
behind  them  when  Marguerite  would  have  darted  up 
to  her  chamber ;  but  her  friend  caught  her  hands 
across  the  balustrade,  and  said,  with  roguery  in  her 
own  eyes : 

"  Marguerite,  you  sweet  rowdy  —  " 

''Wat?" 

"  Yes,  what.     There's  something  up  ;  what  is  it?  " 

The  girl  tried  to  put  on  surprise  ;  but  her  eyes  failed 
her  again.  She  leaned  on  the  rail  and  looked  down, 
meanwhile  trying  softly  to  draw  away  up-stairs  ;  but 
her  friend  held  on  to  one  hand  and  murmured : 

"  Just  one  question,  dearie,  just  one.  I'll  not  ask 
another:  I'll  die  first.  You'll  probably  find  me  in 
articulo  mortis  when  you  come  down-stairs.  Just  one 
question,  lovie." 

"  IP  ant  is?" 


296  n  ON  A  VEN  T  UR  E. 

"  It's  nothing  but  this  ;  I  ask  for  information."  The 
voice  dropped  to  a  whisper,  —  "Is  he  as  handsome  as 
his  portrait?  " 

The  victim  rallied  all  her  poor  powers  of  face,  and 
turned  feebly  upon  the  questioner : 

"  Fo' trait?  Who?"  Her  voice  was  low,  and  she 
glanced  furtively  at  the  nearest  door.  '•  I  dawn't 
awnstan  you."  Her  hand  pulled  softly  for  its  free- 
dom, and  she  turned  to  go,  repeating,  with  averted 
face,  "■  I  dawn't  awnstan  you  't  all." 

"  Well,  never  mind  then,  dear,  if  you  don't  under- 
stand," responded  the  tease,  with  mock  tenderness. 
''  But,  ma  belle  Creole  —  " 

"  Je  suis  Acadienne.'' 

"You're  an  angel,  faintly  disguised.  Only  —  look 
around  here  —  onl}^,  Angelica,  don't  try  to  practise 
woman's  humbug  on  a  w^oman.  At  least,  not  on  this 
old  one.  It  doesn't  work.  I'll  tell  you  whom  I 
mean."  She  pulled,  but  Marguerite  held  off.  '*  I 
mean,"  she  hoarsely  whispered,  —  "  I  mean  the  young 
inventor  that  engineer  told  us  about.     Remember?  " 

Marguerite,  with  her  head  bowed  low,  slowly  dragged 
her  hand  free,  and  moved  with  growing  speed  up  the 
stairs,  saying : 

"I  dawn't  know  what  is  dat.  I  dawn't  awnstan 
you  't  all."  Her  last  words  trembled  as  if  nigh  to 
tears.  At  the  top  of  the  stairs  the  searching  murmur 
of  her  friend's  voice  came  up,  and  she  turned  and 
looked  back. 

"Forgive  me!"  said  the  figure  below.  The  girl 
stood  a  moment,  sending  down  a  re-assuring  smile. 


''TEA IIS  AND   SUCH   TIIINGSr  297 

"You  3'oung  rogue!"  miirmiired  the  lad}^  looking 
up  with  ravished  eyes.  Then  she  lifted  herself  on 
tiptoe,  nmde  a  trumpet  of  both  little  hands,  and 
whispered  : 

"  Don't —  worry  !     We'll  bring  it  out  —  all  right !  " 

Whereat  Marguerite  blushed  from  temple  to  throat, 
and  vanished. 

Tlie  same  day  word  came  from  her  mother  of  her 
return  from  Terrebonne,  and  she  hastened  to  rejoin 
her  in  their  snug  rooms  over  the  Women's  Exchange. 
When  she  snatched  Zosephine  into  her  arms  and  shed 
tears,  the  mother  merely  wiped  and  kissed  them  away, 
and  asked  no  explanation. 

The  two  were  soon  apart.  For  Marguerite  hungered 
unceasingly  for  solitude.  Only  in  solitude  could  she, 
or  dared  she,  give  herself  up  to  the  constant  recapitu- 
lation of  every  minutest  incident  of  the  morning.  And 
that  was  ample  employment.  They  seemed  the  hap- 
penings of  a  month  ago.  She  felt  as  if  it  were  imper- 
ative to  fix  them  in  her  memory  now,  or  lose  them  in 
confusion  and  oblivion  forever.  Over  them  all  again 
and  again  she  went,  sometimes  quickening  memory 
with  half-spoken  words,  sometimes  halting  in  long 
reverie  at  some  intense  juncture  :  now  with  tingling 
pleasure  at  the  unveiling  of  the  portrait,  the  painter's 
cautionar}"  revelation  of  the  personal  presence  above, 
or  Claude's  appearance  at  the  window ;  now  with 
burnings  of  self-abasement  at  the  passionate  but  in- 
effectual beseechmgs  of  her  violin  ;  and  always  ending 
with  her  face  in  her  hands,  as  though  to  liide  her  face 
even  from  herself  for  shame  that  with  all  her  callino: 


298  BONAVENTURE. 

—  her  barefaced,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  her  abject  call- 
iiig  —  he  had  not  come. 

''  Marguerite,  my  child,  it  is  time  for  bed.'* 
She  obeyed.  It  was  all  one,  the  bed  or  the  window. 
Her  mother,  weary  with  travel,  fell  asleep  ;  but  she  — 
she  heard  the  clock  down-stairs  strike,  and  a  clock 
next  door  attest,  twelve  —  one — two  —  three  —  four, 
and  another  day  began  to  shine  in  at  the  window.  As 
it  brightened,  her  spirits  rose.  She  had  been  lying 
long  in  reverie  ;  now  she  began  once  more  the  oft- 
repeated  rehearsal.  But  the  new  day  shone  into  it 
also.  When  the  silent  recital  again  reached  its  end, 
the  old  distress  was  no  longer  there,  but  in  its  place 
was  a  new,  sweet  shame  near  of  kin  to  joy.  The  face, 
unhidden,  looked  straight  into  the  growing  light. 
Whatever  else  had  happened,  this  remained, — that 
Claude  was  found.  She  sil^intly  formed  the  name  on 
her  parted  lips —  "Claude  !  Claude  !  Claude  !  Claude  !  " 
and  could  not  stop  though  it  gave  her  pain,  the  pain 
was  so  sweet.  She  ceased  only  when  there  rose  before 
her  again  the  picture  of  him  drawing  the  curtain  and 
disappearing ;  but  even  then  she  remembered  the 
words,  "Don't  w^orry ;  we'll  bring  it  out  all  right," 
and  smiled. 

When  Zos6phine,  as  the  first  sunbeam  struck  the 
window-pane,  turned  upon  her  elbow  and  looked  into 
the  fair  face  beside  her,  the  eyes  were  closed  in  sleep. 
She  arose,  darkened  the  room,  and  left  it. 


LOVE,  ANGER,  AND  MISUNDERSTANDING.      299 
CHAPTER    XX. 

LOVE,    ANGER,    AND    MISUNDERSTANDING. 

The  city  bells  had  sounded  for  Doon  when  the 
sleeper  opened  her  eyes.  While  she  slept,  Claude  had 
arrived  again  at  his  father's  cottage  from  the  scene 
of  the  crevasse,  and  reported  to  Tarbox  the  decision  of 
himself  and  the  engineer,  that  the  gap  would  not  be 
closed  for  months  to  come.  While  he  told  it,  they  sat 
dovvn  with  St.  Pierre  to  breakfast.  Claude,  who  had  had 
no  chance  even  to  seek  sleep,  ale  like  a  starved  horse. 
Tarbox  watched  him  closel}',  with  hidden  and  growing 
amusement.  Presently  their  eyes  fastened  on  each 
other  steadily.     Tarbox  broke  the  silence. 

"  You  don't  care  how  the  crevasse  turns  out.  I've 
asked  you  a  question  now  twice,  and  3'ou  don't  even 
hear." 

"  Why  you  don't  ass  ag'in  ?  "  responded  the  younger 
man,  reaching  over  to  the  meat-dish  and  rubbing  his 
bread  in  the  last  of  the  gravy.  Some  small  care  called 
St.  Pierre  away  from  the  board.  Tarbox  leaned  for- 
ward on  his  elbows,  and,  not  knowing  he  quoted,  said 
softly,  — 

"  There's  something  up.     What  is  it?  " 

"Op?"  asked  Claude,  in  his  full  voice,  frowning. 
"  Op  where?  —  w'at,  ic' at  is?  " 

"Ah,  j'es !  "  said  Tarbox,  with  affected  sadness. 
"  Yes,  that's  it ;  I  thought  so. 

'  Oli-hon  for  somebody,  oh  hey  for  somebody.' " 


300  HON  A  VEN  T  URE. 

Claiulo  stopped  with  a  morsel  half-way  to  his  mouth, 
glared  at  him  several  seconds,  and  then  resumed  his 
eating  ;  not  like  a  horse  now,  but  like  a  bad  dog  gnaw- 
ing an  old  l)one.  lie  glanced  again  angril}-  at  the 
embodiment  of  irreverence  oi)posite.  iSIr.  Tarbox 
smiled.  Claude  let  slip,  not  intending  it,  an  audible 
growl,  with  his  eyes  in  the  plate.  Mr.  Tarbox's  smile 
increased  to  a  noiseless  laugh,  and  grew  and  grew  until 
it  took  hopeless  possession  of  him.  His  nerves  re- 
laxed, he  trembled,  the  ta1>le  trembled  with  him,  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  his  brows  lifted  laboriousl}',  he 
covered  his  lips  with  one  hand,  and  his  abdomen  shrank 
until  it  pained  him.  And  Claude  knew,  and  showed 
he  knew  it  all ;  that  was  what  made  it  impossible  to 
stop.  At  length,  with  tottering  knees,  Mr.  Tarbox 
rose  and  started  silently  for  the  door.  He  knew 
Claude's  eyes  were  following.  He  heard  him  rise  to 
his  feet.  He  felt  as  though  he  would  have  given  a 
thousand  dollars  if  his  legs  would  but  last  him  througli 
the  doorway.  But  to  crown  all,  St.  Pierre  met  him 
just  on  the  threshold,  breaking,  with  unintelligent 
sympathy,  into  a  broad,  simple  smile.  Tarbox  laid 
one  hand  upon  the  door  for  support,  and  at  that  mo- 
ment there  was  a  hurtling  sound  ;  something  whizzed 
by  Tarbox's  ear,  and  the  meat-dish  crashed  against 
the  door-post,  and  flew  into  a  hundred  pieces. 

The  book-agent  ran  like  a  deer  for  a  hundred  yards 
and  fell  grovelling  upon  the  turf,  the  laugh  still  griping 
him  with  the  energy  of  a  panther's  jaws,  while  Claude, 
who,  in  l)lin(l  pursuit,  had  come  threshing  into  his 
father's  arms,  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes  and  strode 


LOVE,  ANGER,  AND  MISUNDERSTANDING.      301 

away  towards  the  skiff  ferry.  As  Mr.  Tarbox  re- 
turned towards  the  cottage,  St.  Pierre  met  him,  look- 
ing very  grave,  if  not  displeased.  The  swamper  spoke 
first. 

*'  Dass  mighty  good  for  you  I  was  yondah  to  stop 
dat  boy.     He  would  'a'  half-kill'  you." 

"  He'd  have  served  me  ex-actly  right,"  said  the 
other,  and  laughed  again.  St.  Pierre  shook  his  head, 
as  though  this  confession  were  poor  satisfaction,  and 
said,  — 

"Dass  not  safe  —  make  a  'Cajun  mad.  He  dawn't 
git  mad  easy,  but  when  he  git  mad  it  bre'k  out  all  ove' 
him,  yass.  He  goin'  feel  bad  all  day  now  ;  I  see  tear* 
in  his  eye  when  he  walk  off." 

*'  Pm  Sony,"  said  Tarbox  sincerely,  and  presently 
added,  ''Now,  while  you  look  up  a  picked  gang  of 
timber-men,  PU  see  if  I  can  charter  a  little  stern-wheel 
steamer,  get  that  written  permission  from  Madame 
Beausoleil  to  cut  trees  on  her  land,  and  so  forth,  and 
so  forth.  You'll  hardly  see  me  before  bedtime 
again." 

It  was  the  first  hour  of  tlie  afternoon  when  Claude 
left  his  little  workroom  and  walked  slowly  down  to, 
and  across,  Canal  Street  and  into  Bourbon.  He  had 
si)ent  the  intervening  hours  seated  at  his  work-ta])le 
with  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  was  in  great  bitterness. 
His  late  transport  of  anger  gave  him  no  burdensome 
concern.  Indeed,  there  was  consolation  in  the  thought 
that  he  should,  by  and  by,  stand  erect  before  one  who 
was  so  largely  to  blame,  and  make  that  full  confession 
and  apology  which    he    believed  his  old-time  Grande 


302  BONA  VENTURE. 

Pointe  schoolmaster  would  have  offered  could  Bona- 
veuture  ever  have  so  shamefull}'  forgotten  huiiself. 
Yet  the  chagrin  of  having  at  once  so  violently  and  so 
impotently  belittled  himself  added  one  sting  more  to  his 
fate.  He  was  in  despair.  An  escaped  balloon,  a  burst 
bubble,  could  hardly  have  seemed  more  utterly  beyond 
his  reach  than  now  did  Marguerite.  And  he  could  not 
blame  her.     She  was  right,  he  said  sternly  to  himself 

—  right  to  treat  his  portrait  as  something  that  reminded 
her  of  nothing,  whether  it  did  so  or  not ;  to  play  on 
with  undisturbed  inspiration  ;  to  lift  never  a  glance  to 
his  window  ;  and  to  go  away  without  a  word,  a  look, 
a  sign,  to  any  one,  when  the  least  breath  or  motion 
would  have  brought  him  instantly  into  her  sacred 
presence.  She  was  right.  She  was  not  for  him. 
There  is  a  fitness  of  things,  and  there  was  no  fitness 

—  he  said  —  of  him  for  her.  And  3'et  she  must  and 
would  ever  be  more  to  him  than  any  one  else.  He 
would  glory  in  going  through  life  unloved,  while  his 
soul  lived  in  and  on  the  phantom  companionship  of 
that  vision  of  delight  which  she  was  and  should  ever 
be.  The  midda}'  bells  sounded  softly  here  and  tliere. 
He  would  walk. 

As  I  say,  he  went  slowly  down  the  old  rue  Bourbon. 
He  had  no  hunger;  he  would  pass  by  the  Women's 
Exchange.  There  was  nothing  to  stop  there  for  ;  was 
not  Madame  Beausoleil  in  Terrebonne,  and  Marguerite 
the  guest  of  tliat  chattering  woman  in  silk  and  laces? 
But  when  he  reached  the  Exchange  doors  he  drifted  in 
as  silently  and  supinely  as  any  drift-log  would  float 
into  the  new  crevasse. 


LOVE,  ANGER,  AND  MISUNDERSTANDING.      303 

The  same  cashier  was  still  on  duty.  She  lighted  up 
J03-OUSI3-  as  he  entered,  and,  when  he  had  hung  his 
hat  near  the  door,  leaned  forward  to  address  him  ;  but 
with  a  faint  pain  in  his  face,  and  loathing  in  his  heart, 
he  passed  on  and  out  into  the  veranda.  The  place  was 
well  filled,  and  he  had  to  look  about  to  find  a  seat. 
The  bare  possibility  that  she  might  be  there  was  over- 
powering. There  was  a  total  suspension  of  every  sort 
of  emotion.  He  felt,  as  he  took  his  chair  and  essaj'ed 
to  glance  casually  around,  as  light  and  unreal  as  any 
one  who  ever  walked  the  tight-rope  in  a  dream.  The 
blood  leaped  in  torrents  through  his  veins,  and  yet  his 
movements,  as  he  fumbled  aimlessly  with  his  knife, 
fork,  and  glass,  were  slow  and  languid. 

A  slender  young  waitress  came,  rested  her  knuckles 
on  the  table,  and  leaned  on  them,  let  her  opposite  arm 
hang  limply  along  the  sidewise  curve  of  her  form,  and 
bending  a  smile  of  angelic  affection  upon  the  young 
Acadian,  said  in  a  confidential  undertone  : 

"  The  cashier  told  me  to  tell  you  those  ladies  have 
come." 

Claude  rose  quickly  and  stood  looking  upon  the  face 
before  him,  speechless.  It  was  to  him  exactly  as  if  a 
man  in  uniform  had  laid  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and 
said,  "  You're  my  prisoner."  Then,  still  gazing,  and 
aware  of  others  looking  at  him,  he  slowly  sank  again 
into  his  seat. 

"  She  just  told  me  to  tell  3'ou,"  said  the  damsel. 
"  Yes,  sir.     Have  you  ordered?  " 

''  Humph?  "     He  was  still  looking  at  her. 

"  I  say,  have  you  given  your  order?  " 


304  BONAVENTURE. 

She  paused  awkwardly,  for  she  knew  he  had  not, 
and  saw  that  lie  was  trying  vainly  to  make  her  words 
mean  something  in  his  mind. 

*'  Sha'n't  I  get  you  some  coffee  and  rolls  — same  as 
day  before  yesterday?  " 

''Yass."  He  did  not  know  what  she  said.  His 
heart  had  stopped  beating ;  now  it  began  again  at  a 
gallop.  He  turned  red.  He  could  see  the  handker- 
chief that  was  wadded  into  his  outer  breast-pocket  jar 
in  time  with  the  heavy  thump,  thump,  thump  beneath  it. 
The  waitress  staid  an  awful  time.     At  last  she  came. 

"  I  waited,"  she  sweetly  said,  *'  to  get  hot  ones." 
He  drew  the  refreshments  towards  him  mechanically. 
The  mere  smell  of  food  made  him  sick.  It  seemed 
impossible  that  he  should  eat  it.  She  leaned  over  him 
lovingly  and  asked,  as  if  referring  to  the  attitude, 
*' Would  you  like  any  thing  more?  —  something  sweet?" 
His  flesh  crawled.  He  bent  over  his  plate,  shook  his 
head,  and  stirred  his  coffee  without  having  put  an}-  thing 
into  it. 

She  tripped  away,  and  he  drew  a  breath  of  momen- 
tary relief,  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  warily  passed 
his  eyes  around  to  see  if  there  was  anybody  who  was 
not  looking  at  him  and  waiting  for  him  to  begin  to 
eat. 

Ages  afterward  —  to  speak  with  Claude's  feelings  — 
he  rose,  took  up  his  check,  and  went  to  the  desk.  The 
cashier  leaned  forward  and  said  with  soft  blitheness  : 

"  They're  here.     They're  up-stairs  now." 

Claude  answered  never  a  word.     He  paid  his  check. 


LOVE  AND  LUCK  BY  ELECTRIC  LIGUT.      305 

As  he  waited  for  change,  he  cast  another  glance  over 
the  various  groups  at  the  tables.  All  were  strangers. 
Then  he  went  out.  On  the  single  sidewalk  step  he 
halted,  and  red  and  blind  with  mortification,  turned 
again  into  the  place  ;  he  had  left  his  hat.  With  one 
magnificent  effort  at  dignity  and  unconcern  he  went  to 
the  rack,  took  down  the  hat,  and  as  he  lowered  it 
towards  his  head  cast  a  last  look  down  the  room,  and 
—  there  stood  Marguerite.  She  had  entered  just  in 
time,  it  seemed  to  him,  but  just  too  late,  in  fact,  to  see 
and  understand  the  blunder.  Oh,  agony  I  They  bowed 
to  each  other  with  majestic  faintness,  and  then  each 
from  each  was  gone.  The  girl  at  the  desk  saw  it  and 
was  dumb. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

LOVE    AND    LUCK    BY    ELECTRIC    LIGHT. 

Mr.  Tarbox  was  really  a  very  brave  man.  For, 
had  he  not  been,  how  could  he  have  ventured,  some- 
thing after  the  middle  of  that  afternoon,  in  his  best 
attire,  up  into  Claude's  workroom?  He  came  to 
apologize.     But  Claude  was  not  there. 

He  waited,  but  the  young  man  did  not  return.  The 
air  was  hot  and  still.  Mr.  Tarbox  looked  at  his  watch 
—  it  was  a  quarter  of  five.  He  rose  and  descended 
to  the  street,  looked  up  and  down  it,  and  then  moved 
briskly  down  to,  and  across.  Canal  Street  and  into 
Bourbon.     He  had  an  appointment. 


306  BO  NA  VEN  T  UR  E. 

Claude  had  not  gone  back  to  his  loft  at  all.  He 
was  wandering  up  and  down  the  streets.  About  four 
he  was  in  Bienville  Street,  where  the  pleasure-trains 
run  through  it  on  their  way  out  to  S|)anish  Fort,  a 
beautiful  pleasure-ground  some  six  miles  away  from 
the  city's  centre,  on  the  margin  of  Lake  Pontchartrain. 
He  was  listlessly  crossing  the  way  as  a  train  came 
along,  and  it  was  easy  for  the  habit  of  the  aforetime 
brakeman  to  move  him.  As  the  last  platform  passed 
the  crossing,  he  reached  out  mechanically  and  swung 
aboard. 

Spanish  Fort  is  at  the  mouth  of  Bayou  St.  John. 
A  draw-bridge  spans  the  bayou.  On  the  farther,  the 
eastern,  side,  Claude  stood  leaning  against  a  pile,  look- 
ing off  far  beyond  West  End  to  where  the  sun  was 
setting  in  the  swamps  about  Lake  Maurepas.  There 
—  there  —  not  seen  save  by  memory's  eye,  yet  there 
not  the  less,  was  Ba3'OU  des  Acadiens.  Ah  me  !  there 
was  Grande  Pointe. 

'' O  Bonaventure  !  Do  I  owe  you"  —  Claude's 
thought  was  in  the  old  Acadian  tongue  —  ''Do  I  owe 
5'ou  malice  for  this?  No,  no,  no!  Better  this  than 
less."  And  then  he  recalled  a  writing-book  copy  that 
Bonaventure  had  set  for  him,  of  the  scliool-master's 
own  devising  :  Better  Great  Sorrow  than  Small  Delight. 
His  throat  tightened  and  his  eyes  swam. 

A  pretty  schooner,  with  green  hull  and  new  sails, 
came  down  the  bayou.  As  he  turned  to  gaze  on  her, 
the  bridge,  just  beyond  his  feet,  began  to  swing  open. 
He  stepped  upon  it  and  moved  towards  its  centre,  his 
ejes  still  on  the  beautiful  silent  advance  of  the  vessel. 


LOVE  AND  LUCK  BY  ELECTRIC  LIGHT.      307 

With  a  Dumber  of  persons  who  had  gathered  from  both 
ends  of  the  bridge,  he  paused  and  leaned  over  the  rail 
as  the  schooner,  with  her  crew  looking  up  into  the 
faces  of  the  throng,  glided  close  by.  A  female  form 
came  beside  him,  looking  down  with  the  rest  and  shed- 
ding upon  the  air  the  soft  sweetness  of  perfumed 
robes.     A  masculine  voice,  just  beyond,  said : 

''  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever." 

Claude  started  and  looked  up,  and  behold.  Mar- 
guerite on  the  arm  of  Tarbox  ! 

His  movement  drew  their  glance,  and  the  next  in- 
stant Mr.  Tarbox,  beaming  apology  and  pouring  out 
glad  greetings,  had  him  by  the  hand.  Burning,  chok- 
ing, stammering,  Claude  heard  and  answered,  he  knew 
not  how,  the  voice  of  the  queen  of  all  her  kind. 
Another  pair  pressed  forward  to  add  their  salutations. 
The}^  were  Zos^phine  and  the  surveyor. 

Because  the  facilities  for  entertaining  a  male  vis- 
itor were  slender  at  the  Women's  Exchange,  because 
there  was  hope  of  more  and  cooler  air  at  the  lake-side, 
because  Spanish  Fort  was  a  pretty  and  romantic  spot 
and  not  so  apt  to  be  thronged  as  West  End,  and  be- 
cause Marguerite,  as  she  described  it,  was  tired  of 
houses  and  streets,  and  also  because  he  had  something 
to  say  to  Zosephine,  Mr.  Tarbox  had  brought  the 
pretty  mother  and  daughter  out  here.  The  engineer 
had  met  the  three  by  chance  onl}^  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore, and  now  as  the  bridge  closed  again  he  passed 
Zosephine  over  to  Claude,  walked  only  a  little  way 
with  them  down  a  path  among  the  shrubbery,  and  then 
lifted  his  hat  and  withdrew. 


308  BONA  VENTURE. 

For  once  in  his  life  Mr.  G.  W.  Tarbox,  as  he  walked 
with  Marguerite  in  advance  of  Claude  and  her  mother, 
was  at  a  loss  what  to  say.  The  drollness  of  the  situa- 
tion was  in  danger  of  overcoming  him  again.  Behind 
him  was  Claude,  his  mind  tossed  on  a  wild  sea  of 
doubts  and  suspicions. 

"  I  told  him,"  thought  Tarbox,  while  the  girl  on  his 
arm  talked  on  in  prett}',  broken  English  and  sprightly 
haste  about  something  he  had  lost  the  drift  of  —  "•  I 
told  him  I  was  courting  Josephine.  But  I  never 
proved  it  to  him.  And  now  just  look  at  this  !  Look 
at  the  whole  sweet  mess !  Something  has  got  to  be 
done."  He  did  not  mean  something  direct  and  open- 
handed  ;  that  would  never  have  occurred  to  him.  He 
stopped,  and  with  Marguerite  faced  the  other  pair. 
One  glance  into  Claude's  face,  darkened  with  perplex- 
ity, anger,  and  a  distressful  effort  to  look  amiable  and 
comfortable,  was  one  too  many  ;  Tarbox  burst  into  a 
laugh. 

''  Pardon  I  "  he  exclaimed,  checking  himself  until  he 
was  red  ;  "  I  just  happened  to  think  of  something  very 
funny  that  happened  last  week  in  Arkansas  —  Madame 
Beausoleil,  I  know  it  must  look  odd,"  — his  voice  still 
trembled  a  little,  but  he  kept  a  sober  f ace  ^  "  and 
yet  I  must  take  just  a  moment  for  business.  Claude, 
can  I  see  you  ?  ' ' 

They  went  a  step  aside.  Mr.  Tarbox  put  on  a 
business  frown,  and  said  to  Claude  in  a  low  voice, — 

''Hi  I  diddle,  diddle,  the  cat  and  the  fiddle,  the 
cow  jumped  over  the  moon  the  little  dog  laughed  to 
see  the  sport  and  the.  dish  ran  away  with  the  spoon 


LOVE  AND  LUCE  BY  ELECTRIC  LIGHT,      309 

you  understand  I'm  simply  talking  for  talk's  sake  as 
we  resume  our  walk  we'll  inadvertently  change  part- 
ners—  a  kind  of  AVomen's  Exchange  as  it  were 
old  Mother  Hubbard  she  went  to  the  cupboard  to  get 
her  poor  dog  a  bone  but  when  she  got  there  the  cup- 
board—  don't  smile  so  broadly  —  was  bare  and  so  the 
poor  dog  had  none  will  that  be  satisfactory?  " 

Claude  nodded,  and  as  they  turned  again  to  their 
companions  the  exchange  was  made  with  the  grace, 
silence,  and  calm  unconsciousness  of  pure  oversight, 

—  or  of  general  complicity.  Very  soon  it  suited  Zose- 
phine  and  Tarbox  to  sit  down  upon  a  little  bench 
beside  a  bed  of  heart' s-ease  and  listen  to  the  orchestra. 
But  Marguerite  preferred  to  walk  in  and  out  among 
the  leafy  shadows  of  the  electric  lamps. 

And  so,  side  by  side,  as  he  had  once  seen  Bonaven- 
ture  and  Sidonie  go,  they  went,  Claude  and  Marguerite, 
away  from  all  windings  of  disappointment,  all  shadows 
of  doubt,  all  shoals  of  misapprehension,  out  upon  the 
open  sea  of  mutual  love.  Not  that  the  great  word  of 
words  —  affirmative  or  interrogative  —  was  spoken  then 
or  there.     They  came  no  nearer  to  it  than  this,  — 

"  I  wish,"  murmured  Claude,  — they  had  gone  over 
all  the  deUcious  '^  And-I-thought-that-you's  "  and  the 
sweetly  reproachful  ''Did-you-think-that-I's,"  and  had 
covered  the  past  down  to  the  meeting  on  the  bridge, 

—  "I  wish,"  he  murmured,  dropping  into  the  old 
Acadian  French,  which  he  had  never  spoken  to  her 
before,  —  "I  wish  "  — 

"What?"  she  replied,  softly  and  in  the  same 
tongue. 


310  B  ON  A  V  EN  TUBE. 

"I  wish,"  he  responded,  "  that  this  path  might 
never  end."  He  wondered  at  his  courage,  and  feared 
that  now  he  had  ruined  all ;  for  she  made  no  answer. 
But  wlien  he  looked  down  upon  her  she  looked  up  and 
smiled.  A  little  farther  on  she  dropped  her  fan.  He 
stooped  and  picked  it  up,  and,  in  restoring  it,  somehow 
their  hands  touched,  — touched  and  lingered  ;  and  then 
—  and  then  —  through  one  brief  unspeakable  moment, 
a  maiden's  hand,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  lay  will- 
ingh'  in  his.  Then,  as  glad  as  she  was  frightened, 
Marguerite  said  she  must  go  back  to  her  mother,  and 
they  went. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 


A    DOUBLE    LOVE-KNOT. 


Spanish  Fort  —  West  End  —  they  are  well  enough  ; 
but  if  I  might  have  one  small  part  of  New  Orleans  to 
take  with  me  wherever  I  may  wander  in  this  earthly 
pilgrimage,  I  should  ask  for  the  old  Carrollton  Gar- 
dens. 

They  lie  near  the  farthest  upper  limit  of  the  ex- 
panded city.  I  should  want,  of  course,  to  include  the 
levee,  under  which  runs  one  side  of  the  gardens'  fence  ; 
also  the  opposite  shore  of  the  Mississippi,  with  its  just 
discernible  plantation  houses  behind  their  levee  ;  and 
the  great  bend  of  the  river  itself,  with  the  sun  setting 
in  unutterable  gorgeousness  behind  the  distant,  low- 
lying  pecan  groves  of  Nine-mile  Point,  and  the  bronzed 


A   DOUBLE  LOVE-KNOT.  311 

and  purpled  waters  kissing  the  very  crown  of  the  great 
turfed  levee,  down  under  whose  land  side  the  gardens 
blossom  and  give  forth  their  hundred  perfumes  and 
bird  songs  to  the  children  and  lovers  that  haunt  their 
winding  alleys  of  oleander,  jasmine,  laurustine,  orange, 
aloe,  and  rose,  the  grove  of  magnolias  and  oaks,  and 
come  out  upon  the  levee's  top  as  the  sun  sinks,  to 
catch  the  gentle  breeze  and  see  the  twilight  change 
to  moonlight  on  the  water. 

One  evening  as  I  sat  on  one  of  the  levee  benches 
here,  with  one  whose  I  am  and  who  is  mine  beside  me, 
w^e  noticed  on  the  water  opposite  us,  and  near  the 
farther  shore,  a  large  skiff  propelled  with  two  pairs 
of  oars  and  containing,  besides  the  two  rowers,  half  a 
dozen  passengers. 

Then  I  remembered  that  I  had  seen  the  same  craft 
when  it  was  farther  down  the  stream.  The  river  is  of 
a  typical  character  about  here.  Coming  around  the 
upper  bend,  the  vast  current  sweeps  across  to  this,  the 
Carrollton  side,  and  strikes  it  just  above  the  gardens 
wuth  an  incalculable  gnawing,  tearing  power.  Hence 
the  ver}'  high  levee  here  ;  the  farther  back  the  levee 
builders  are  driven  by  the  corroding  waters  the  lower 
the  ground  is  under  them,  and  the  higher  they  must 
build  to  reach  the  height  they  reached  before.  From 
Carrollton  the  current  rebounds,  and  swinging  over  to 
the  other  shore  strikes  it,  boiling  like  a  witch's  cal- 
dron, just  above  and  along  the  place  where  you  may 
descry  the  levee  lock  of  the  Company  Canal. 

I  knew  the  waters  all  about  there,  and  knew  that 
this  skiff  full  of  passengers,  some  of  whom  we  could 


312  BONAVENTUUE. 

see  were  women,  having  toiled  tlnongh  the  seething 
current  below,  was  now  in  a  broad  edd}-,  and,  if  it 
was  about  to  cross  the  stream,  would  do  so  only  after 
it  had  gone  some  hundred  yards  farther  up  the  river. 
There  it  could  cross  almost  with  the  current. 

And  so  it  did.  1  had  forgotten  it  again,  when  pres- 
ently it  showed  itself  with  all  its  freight,  silhouetted 
against  the  crimson  sk^-.     I  said  quickly : 

"  I  believe  Bonaventure  Deschamps  is  in  that  boat !  " 

I  was  right.  The  skiff  landed,  and  we  saw  its  pas- 
sengers step  ashore.  They  came  along  the  levee's 
crown  towards  us,  "  by  two,  by  two."  Bonaventure 
was  mated  with  a  young  Methodist  preacher,  who  had 
been  my  playmate  in  boyhood,  and  who  lived  here  in 
Carrollton.  Behind  him  came  St.  Pierre  and  Sidonie. 
Then  followed  Claude  and  Marguerite ;  and,  behind 
all,  Zosephine  and  Tarbox. 

They  had  come,  they  explained  to  us,  from  a  funeral 
at  the  head  of  the  canal.  They  did  not  say  the  funeral 
of  a  friend,  and  yet  I  couhl  see  that  every  one  of 
them,  even  the  preacher,  had  shed  tears.  The  others 
had  thought  it  best  and  pleasantest  to  accompany  the 
minister  thus  far  towards  his  home,  then  take  a  turn  in 
the  gardens,  and  then  take  the  horse-cars  for  the  city's 
centre.  Bonaventure  and  Sidonie  were  to  return  next 
day  by  steamer  to  Belle  Alliance  and  Grande  Pointe. 
The  thoughtful  Tarl)ox  had  procured  Bonaventure's 
presence  at  the  inquest  of  the  day  before  as  the  identi- 
fying witness,  thus  to  save  Zosephine  that  painful 
office.  And  yet  it  was  of  Zos^phine's  own  motion, 
and  by  her  sad  insistence,  that  she  and  her  daughter 
followed  the  outcast  to  his  grave. 


A    DOUBLE  LOVE-KNOT.  313 

"Yes,"  she  had  said,  hiying  one  hand  in  Bonaven- 
ture's  and  the  other  in  Sidonie's  and  speaking  in  the 
old  Acadian  tongue,  "  when  I  was  young  and  proud  I 
taught  'Thanase  to  despise  and  tease  him.  I  did  not 
know  then  that  I  was  such  a  coward  myself.  If  I  had 
been  a  better  scholar,  Bonaveuture,  when  we  used  to 
go  to  school  to  the  cure  together  —  a  better  learner  — 
not  in  the  books  merely,  but  in  those  things  that  are  so 
much  better  than  the  things  books  teach — how  different 
all  might  have  been  !  Thank  God,  Bonaventure,  one  of 
us  was."  She  turned  to  Sidonie  to  add,  —  "  But  that 
one  was  Bonaventure.  We  will  all  go" — to  the 
funeral — "  we  will  all  go  and  bury  vain  regrets  —  with 
the  dead." 

The  influence  of  the  sad  office  they  had  just  per- 
formed was  on  the  group  still,  as  they  paused  to  give 
us  the  words  of  greeting  we  coveted.  Yet  we  could  see 
that  a  certain  sense  of  being  very,  very  rich  in  happi- 
ness was  on  them  all,  though  differently  on  every  one. 

Zosephine  wore  the  pear-shaped  pearl. 

The  preacher  said  good-day,  and  started  down  the 
steps  that  used  to  lead  from  the  levee  down  across 
a  pretty  fountained  court  and  into  the  town.  But  my 
friend  Tarbox  —  for  I  must  tell  you  I  like  to  call  him 
my  friend,  and  like  it  better  every  day ;  we  can't  all 
be  one  sort ;  you'd  like  him  if  you  knew  him  as  I  do 
—  my  friend  Tarbox  beckoned  me  to  detain  him. 

"  Christian  !  "  I  called  —  that  is  the  preacher's  real 
name.  He  turned  back  and  met  Tarbox  just  where 
I  stood.  They  laid  their  arms  across  each  other's 
shoulders  in  a  very  Methodist  way,  and  I  heard  Tarbox 
say: 


314  BONAVENTUBE. 

''  I  want  to  thank  yon  once  more.  "We've  put  you 
to  a  good  deal  of  trouble.  You  gave  us  the  best 
you  had  :  I'll  never  forget  what  you  said  about  '  them 
who  through  fear  of  death  are  all  their  life-time  sub- 
ject to  bondage.'     I  wish  you  were  a  Catholic  priest." 

''Why?" 

"So  we  could  pay  yow  for  j^our  trouble.  I  don't 
think  you  ought  to  take  it  hard  if  you  get  a  check  in 
to-morrow's  mail." 

"Thy  money  survive  with  thee,"  said  the  preacher. 
"Is  that  all  3^ou  want  me  to  be  a  priest  for?  Isn't 
there  another  reason  ?  "  His  eyes  twinkled.  "Isn't 
there  something  else  I  could  do  for  you  —  you.  or 
Claude  —  if  I  should  turn  priest  ?  ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Tarbox,  with  grave  lips,  but  merry 
eyes  ;  "  we've  both  got  to  have  one." 

In  fact  they  had  two.  Yet  I  have  it  from  her  hus- 
band himself,  that  Madame  Tarbox  insists  to  this  da}', 
always  with  the  same  sweet  dignity,  that  she  never  did 
say  yes. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  Claude  and  Marguerite 
were  kneeling  at  the  altar  the  proud  St.  Pierre,  senior, 
spoke  an  audible  and  joyously  impatient  affirmative 
every  time  either  of  them  was  asked  a  question.  When 
the  time  came  for  kissing,  Sidonie,  turning  from  both 
brides,  kissed  St.  Pierre  the  more  for  that  she  kissed 
not  Claude,  then  turned  again  and  gave  a  tear  with 
the  kiss  she  gave  to  Zos^'phiue.  But  the  deepest,  glad- 
dest tears  at  those  nuptials  were  shed  by  Bonaventure 
Deschamps. 


B 


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AN  HONORABLE  SURRENDER.     (l6mo.  $1.00.) 

' '  The  stor)'  belongs  distinctly  to  the  realistic  school  of  modern 
fiction.  The  situations  are  those  of  every  day.  The  characters  are 
not  in  the  least  eccentric  ;  the  dialogue  is  never  extravagant ;  the 
descriptive  and  analytical  passages  are  neither  obtrusive  nor  too 
prolix.  The  sum  of  all  these  negations  is  a  charming  book,  full  of 
a  genuine  human  interest." — The  Portland  Advertiser. 

William  Waldorf  A  stor. 

VALENTINO:   An  Historical  Romance.     (l2mo,  $1.00.) 

"It  is  well  called  a  romance,  and  no  romance  indeed  could  be 
more  effective  than  the  extraordinary  extract  from  Italian  annals  of 
the  i6th  Century  which  it  preserves  in  such  vivid  colors.  The 
incidents  are  presented  with  dramatic  art.  The  movement  of  the 
story  never  drags." — The  New  York  Tribune. 

Arlo  Bates, 

A  WHEEL  OF  FIRE.     (l2mo,  $1.00.) 

"The  novel  deals  with  character  rather  than  incident,  and  is 
evolved  from  one  of  the  most  terrible  of  moral  problems  with  a 
subtlety  not  unlike  that  of  Hawthorne.  One  cannot  enumerate  all 
the  fine  points  of  artistic  skill  which  make  this  study  so  wonderful 
m  its  insight,  so  rare  in  its  combination  of  dramatic  power  and 
tenderness. " —  The  Critic, 

Hjalmar  H.  Boyesen, 

FALCONBERG.  Illustrated  (l2mo,  $I.50)-GUNNAR.  (Sq.  l2mo,  $1.25)- 
TALES  FROM  TWO  HEMISPHERES.  (Sq.  l2mo,  $1.00)— ILKA  ON 
THE  HILL  TOP,  and  Other  Stories.  (Sq.  l2mo,  $1.00)— QUEEN  TITANIA 
(Sq.  l2mo,  $1.00). 

"Mr.  Boyesen's  stories  possess  a  sweetness,  a  tenderness,  and  a 
drollery  that  are  fascinating,  and  yet  they  are  no  more  attractive 
than  they  are  strong." — 7^he  Home  Journal. 


SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 


H.  C.  Biinner. 

THE  STORY  OF  A  NEW  YORK  HOUSE.  Illustrated  by  A.  B.  Frost  (l2mo, 
$1.25)  -THE  MIDGE.  (l2mo,  $I.OO)-IN  PARTNERSHIP.  With  Brander 
Matthews  (l2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00). 

"It  is  Mr,  Bunner's  delicacy  of  touch  and  appreciation  of  what 
is  literary  art  that  give  his  writings  distinctive  quality.  Everything 
Mr.  Bunner  paints  shows  the  happy  appreciation  of  an  author  who 
has  not  alone  mental  discernment,  but  the  artistic  appreciation. 
The  author  and  the  artist  both  supplement  one  another  in  this  ex- 
cellent '  Story  of  a  New  York  House.'  "—7^/^^  New  York  Times. 


Frances  Hodgson  Burnett, 

THAT  LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S.  Illustrated  (paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.25)— 
HAWORTH'S.  Illustrated  (l2mo,  $l.25)-THROUGH  ONE  ADMINISTRA- 
TION. (l2mo,  $I.50)-LOUIS!ANA.  (l2mo,  $I.25)-A  FAIR  BARBARIAN. 
(l2mo,  $1.25)— SURLY  TIM,  and  Other  Stories  (l2mo,  $1.25). 

The  above  6  vols.,  in  uniform  binding,  $7.Jo  per  set. 

LITTLE  LORD  FAUNTLEROY.  Illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch  (Sq.  8vo,  $2.00)— 
SARA  CREWE;  or.  What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchin's.  Illustrated  by 
R.  B.  Birch  (Sq.  8vo,  $1.00). 

Earlier  Stories  by  the  same  author,  each  i6mo,  paper  covers. 

LINDSAY'S  LUCK  (30  cts.)— PRETTY  POLLY  PEMBERTON  (40  cts.)— 
KATHLEEN  (40  cts.)— THEO  (30  cts.)-MISS  CRESPIGNY  (30  cts.). 

"  Mrs.  Burnett  discovers  gracious  secrets  in  rough  and  forbidding 
natures — the  sweetness  that  often  underlies  their  bitterness — the  soul 
of  goodness  in  things  evil.  She  seems  to  have  an  intuitive  percep- 
tion of  character.  If  we  apprehend  her  personages,  and  I  think  we 
do  clearly,  it  is  not  because  she  describes  them  to  us,  but  because 
they  reveal  themselves  in  their  actions.  Mrs.  Burnett's  characters 
are  as  veritable  as  Thackeray's."— Richard  Henry  Stodd.ard. 


William  Allen  Butler, 

DOMES  ilCUS.     A  Tale  of  the  Imperial  City    (l2mD,  $1.25.). 

*'  Under  a  veil  made  intentionally  transparent,  the  author  main- 
tains a  running  fire  of  good-natured  hits  at  contemporary  social 
follies.  There  is  a  delicate  love  story  running  through  the  book. 
The  author's  style  is  highly  finished.  One  might  term  it  old-fashioned 
in  its  exquisite  choiceness  and  precision." — The  New  York  Journal 
of  Commerce. 


SCRIBNER'S    BRJEF    LIST    OF    FICTION 


George  W.  Cable. 

THE  GRANDISSIMES.  (i2mo,  $1.25)— OLD  CREOLE  DAYS.  (l2mo,  cloth, 
$L25;  also  in  two  parts,  l6mo,  doth,  each,  75  cts.;  paper,  each,  30cts.) — 
DR.  SEVIER.  (l2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— BONAVENTURE.  A 
Prose  Pastoral  of  Acadian  Louisiana  (l2mo,  $1.25). 

The  set,  4  vols.,  %^.oo. 

"There  are  few  living  American  writers  who  can  reproduce  for 
us  tnore  perfectly  than  Mr.  Cable  does,  in  his  best  moments,  the 
speech,  the  manners,  the  whole  social  atmosphere  of  a  remote  time 
and  a  peculiar  people.  A  delicious  flavor  of  humor  penetrates  his 
stories,  and  the  tragic  portions  are  handled  with  rare  strength." — The 
New  York  Tribune, 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 

THEOPHILUS  AND  OTHERS.     (l2mo,  $1.50.) 

"  Mrs.  Dodge  has  a  marked  gift  of  being  constantly  entertaining. 
There  is  a  certain  spiciness  and  piquancy  of  flavor  in  her  work  which 
makes  even  the  slightest  things  that  come  from  her  pen  pleasant  and 
profitable  reading." — The  New  York  Evening  Post. 

EdiDurd  Eggleston. 

«OXY.  Illustrated  (l2mo,  $1.50)— THE  CIRCUIT  RIDER.  Illustrated  (l2mo, 
$1.50)— THE  HOOSIER  SCHOOLMASTER.  Illustrated  (l2mo,  $1.25)— 
THE  MYSTERY  OF  METROPOLISVILLE.  Illustrated  (l2mo,  $1.50)— THE 
END  OF  THE  WORLD.     Illustrated  (l2mo,  $1.50). 

The  set,  5  vois.,  ^'^.2^. 

"  Dr.  Eggleston's  career  as  a  novelist  has  been  a  peculiar  one. 
His  first  work  achieved  a  swift  and  unmistakable  success.  Its  fresh 
and  vivid  portraiture  of  a  phase  of  life  and  manners,  hitherto  almost 
unrepresented  in  literature  ;  its  boldly  contrasted  characters  ;  its 
unconventional,  hearty,  religious  spirit,  and  its  reflection  of  the 
vigorous  individuality  of  the  author,  took  hold  of  the  public  imagina- 
tion."—  The  Christian  Union. 

Erckmann-Chatrian. 

FRIEND  FRITZ— THE  CONSCRIPT.  Illustrated— WATERLOO.  Illustrated 
(Sequel  to  The  Conscript)— MADAME  THERESE— THE  BLOCKADE  OF 
PHALSBURG.  Illustrated— THE  INVASION  OF  FRANCE  IN  1814.  Illus- 
trated—A MILLER'S  STORY  OF  THE  WAR.     Illustrated. 

Each,  i2mo,  %t.2_^. 

"Not  only  are  these  stories  interesting  historically,  but  intrin- 
sically they  present  pleasant,  well-constructed  plots,  serving  in  each 
case  to  connect  the  great  events  which  they  so  graphically  treat." — 
The  Philadelphia  Inquirer. 


SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION* 


Harold  Frederic. 

SETH'S  BROTHER'S  WIFE.     (l2mo,  $1.25.) 

"A  novel  that  stands  out  in  clear  relief  against  the  fiction  of  the 
time.  It  is  made  of  tangible  stuff,  is  serious  without  being  heavy, 
brisk  and  interesting  without  being  flippant ;  takes  hold  of  real  life 
with  an  easy  yet  firm  and  confident  grasp  that  denotes  judicial  habits 
of  thought  as  well  as  a  comfortable  mastery  of  the  literary  medium." 
—  The  Brooklyn  Times. 

Robert  Grant. 

FACE  TO  FACE.     (l2mo,  paper,  50  cents;  cloih,  $1.25.) 

"  This  is  a  well-told  story,  the  interest  of  which  turns  upon  a  game 
of  cross  purposes  between  an  accomplished  English  girl,  posing  as  a 
free  and  easy  American  Daisy  Miller,  and  an  American  gentleman, 
somewhat  given  to  aping  the  manners  of  the  English." — The 
Buffalo  Express. 

Edward  Everett  Hale. 

PHILIP  NOLAN  S  FRIENDS.     Illustrated  (l2mo,  $1.75). 

"  There  is  no  question,  we  think,  that  this  is  Mr.  Hale's  com- 
pletest  and  best  novel.  The  characters  are  for  the  most  part  well 
drawn,  and  several  of  them  are  admirable." — The  Atlantic  Monthly. 

Marion  Harland. 

JUDITH:    A  Chronicle  of  Old  Virginia.     (l2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1  00) 
—HANDICAPPED  (l2mo,  $1.50). 

"  Fiction  has  afforded  no  more  charming  glimpses  of  old  Virginia 
life  than  are  found  in  this  delightful  story,  with  its  quaint  pictures, 
its  admirably  drawn  characters,  its  wit,  and  its  frankness." — The 
Brooklyn  Daily  Times. 

Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

FREE  JOE,  and  Other  Georgian  Sketches.     (l2mo,  $1.00.) 

"The  author's  skill  as  a  story  writer  has  never  been  more  felic- 
itously illustrated  than  in  this  volume.  The  title  story  is  meagre 
almost  to  baldness  in  incident,  but  its  quaint  humor,  its  simple  but 
broadly  outlined  characters,  and,  above  all,  its  touching  pathos, 
combine  to  make  it  a  masterpiece  of  its  kind." —  The  New  York  Sun. 

Augustus  Allen  Hayes. 

THE  JESUIT'S    RING.     A  Romance  of  Mount  Desert  (l2mo,  paper,  50  cts.; 
cloth,   $1.00). 

"  The  conception  of  the  story  is  excellent.  It  indicates  a  scholarly 
research,  a  sensitiveness  to  artistic  literary  effect,  and  a  fine  power 
of  selection  in  material." — The  Boston  Traveller 


SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 


E,   T.  W,  Hoffmann. 

WEIRD  TALES.     With  Portrait  (l2mo,  2  vols.,  $3.00). 

"  Hoffmann  knew  how  to  construct  a  ghost  story  quite  as  skilfully 
as  Poe,  and  with  a  good  deal  more  sense  of  reality.  All  those  who 
are  in  search  of  a  genuine  literary  sensation,  or  who  care  for  the 
marvelous  and  supernatural,  will  find  these  two  volumes  fascinating 
reading." — The  Christian  Union. 

Dr,  J.  G.  Holland. 

SEVEN   OAKS-THE   BAY    PATH-ARTHUR   BONNICASTLE-MISS   GIL- 
BERT'S CAREER— NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Each,  i2mo,  %i.2^ ;  the  set,  $6.2j. 
"  Dr.  Holland  will  always  find  a  congenial  audience  in  the  homes 
of  culture  and  refinement.  He  does  not  affect  the  play  of  the  darker 
and  fiercer  passions,  but  delights  in  the  sweet  images  that  cluster 
around  the  domestic  hearth.  He  cherishes  a  strong  fellow-feeling 
with  the  pure  and  tranquil  life  in  the  modest  social  circles  of  the 
American  people,  and  has  thus  won  his  way  to  the  companionship 
of  many  friendly  hearts." — The  N^ew  York  I'ribune. 

Thomas  A.  Janvier. 

COLOR  STUDIES.     (l2mo,  $1.00.) 

"Piquant,  novel,  and  ingenious,  these  little  stories,  with  all  their 
simplicity,  have  excited  a  wide  interest.  The  best  of  them,  '  Jaune 
D'Antimoine,'  is  a  little  wonder  in  its  dramatic  effect,  its  ingenious 
construction." — The  Critic. 

Virginia  W.  Johnson. 

THE  FAINALLS  OF  TIPTON.     (l2mo,  $1.25.) 

"The  plot  is  good,  and  in  its  working-out  original.  Character- 
drawing  is  Miss  Johnson's  recognized  forte,  and  her  pen-sketches  of 
the  inventor,  the  checker-playing  clergyman  and  druggist,  the 
rising  young  doctor,  the  sentimental  painter,  the  rival  grocers,  etc., 
are  quite  up  to  her  best  work." — The  Boston  Commonwealth. 

Lieut.  J.  D.  J.  Kelley. 

A  DESPERATE  CHANCE.     (l2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;    cloth,  $1.00.) 

"  This  novel  is  of  the  good  old-fashioned,  exciting  kind.  Though 
it  is  a  sea  story,  all  the  action  is  not  on  board  ship.  There  is  a 
well-developed  mystery,  and  while  it  is  in  no  sense  sensational, 
readers  may  be  assured  that  they  will  not  be  tired  out  by  analytical 
descriptions,  nor  will  they  find  a  dull  page  from  first  to  last." — The 
Brooklyn  Union. 

The  King's  Men : 

A  TALE  OF  TO-MORROW.     By  Robert  Grant,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  J.  S., 
of  Dale,  and  John  T.  Wheelwright.     (l2mo,  $1.25.) 


6  SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 

Andrew  Lang. 

THE  MARK  OF  CAIN.     (l2mo,  paper,  25  cts.;    cloth,  75  cts.) 

"  No  one  can  deny  that  it  is  crammed  as  full  of  incident  as  it  will 
hold,  or  that  the  elaborate  plot  is  worked  out  with  most  ingenious 
perspicuity." — The  Saturday  Review. 

George  P.  Lathrop, 

NEWPORT.  (l2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— AN  ECHO  OF  PASSION. 
,l2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $l.00i— IN  THE  DISTANCE.  (l2mo,  paper, 
50  cts.;    cloth,  $1.00.) 

"It  is  one  of  the  charms  of  Mr.  Lathrop's  style  that  it  appeals  to 
the  imagination  of  the  reader  by  a  delicate  suggestiveness,  which 
lies  like  a  fine  atmosphere  over  the  landscape  of  the  story.  Mis 
novels  have  the  refinement  of  motive  which  characterize  the  analytical 
school,  but  his  manner  is  far  more  direct  and  dramatic." — The 
Christiaji  Union. 

Brander  Matthews. 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA,  and  Other  Stories.  (l2mo,  paper,  50  cts.; 
cloth.  $1.00)— THE  LAST  MEETING.  (l2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00;— 
IN   PARTNERSHIP.     With  H.  C.  Bunner  (l2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;   cloth,  $1.00). 

"Mr.  Matthews  is  a  man  of  wide  observation  and  of  much 
familiarity  with  the  world.  His  literary  style  is  bright  and  crisp, 
with  a  peculiar  sparkle  about  it — wit  and  humor  judiciously  mingled — 
which  renders  his  pages  more  than  ordinarily  interesting." — The 
Rochester  Post-Express. 

Donald  G.  Mitchell. 

DR.  JOHNS.     (i2mo,  $1.25.) 

"  The  author  finds  scenes  and  characters  enough  in  a  single  parish 
to  furnish  the  staple  of  the  book.  There  are  capital  descriptions  of 
parish  life,  home  scenes,  love-making,  hard  cases,  and  saintly  men 
and  women,  their  ways,  habits  ;  in  short,  all  the  warp  and  woof 
going  to  make  the  texture  of  this  isolated  rural  life.  There  are  few 
writers  in  this  country  who  have  ever  surpassed  the  author  in  the 
description  of  rural  New  England  life." — The  San  Francisco 
Bulletin. 

Fiti-James  O'  Br  ten . 

THE  DIAMOND  LENS,  with  Other  Stories.  (l2mo,  paper.  50  cts.;  cloth, 
$1.00.) 

"  These  stories  are  the  only  things  in  literature  to  be  compared 
with  Poe's  works,  and  if  they  do  not  equal  it  in  workmanship,  they 
certainly  do  not  yield  to  it  in  originality." —  The  Philadelphia  Record. 


SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION.  7 

Thomas  Nelson  Page. 

IN  OLE  VIRGINIA— MARSE  CHAN,  and  Other  Stories.     (l2mo,  ${.25.) 

"There  are  qualities  in  these  stories  of  Mr.  Page  which  we  do 
not  find  in  those  of  any  other  Southern  author,  or  not  to  the  same 
extent  and  in  the  same  force — and  they  are  the  qualities  which  are 
too  often  wanting  in  modern  literature." — N.  Y.  Mail  and  Express, 

Howard  Pyle. 

WITHIN  THE  CAPES.    (l2mo,  $1.00.) 

"  Simplicity,  earnestness,  and  directness  are  the  appropriate 
qualities  of  a  tale  supposed  to  be  reeled  by  an  old  sea  captain  as  he 
sits  by  the  chimney  corner,  stranded  in  a  happy  old  age.  The  yarn 
proves  to  possess  all  the  wonderful  elements  of  romance  and  adven- 
ture."—  T/ie  Boston  Journal. 

Saxe  Holm's  Stories. 

FIRST  SERIES— Draxy  Miller's  Dowry— The  Elder's  Wife— Whose  Wife 
Was  She?— The  One-Legged  Dancers— How  One  Woman  Kept  Her  Husband 
—Esther  Wynn's  Love  Letters. 

SECOND  SERIES. — Four-Leaved  Clover— Farmer  Ba«sett's  Romance— My 
Tourmaiene — Joe  Hale's  Red  Stocking— Susan  Lawton's  Escape. 
Each,  127710,  paper,  §o  cts. ;  cloth,  %i.oo. 
"Saxe  Holm's'  characters  are  strongly  drawn,  and  she  goes  right  to 
the  heart  of  human  experience  as  one  who  knows  the  way.  We 
heartily  commend  them  as  vigorous,  wholesome,  and  sufficiently 
exciting  stories." — The  Advance. 

Julia  Schayer. 

TIGER  LILY,  and  Other  Stories.     (l2mo,  $1  00.) 

"  Each  of  the  fine  short  stories  in  the  present  collection  is  original 
in  subject  and  unique  in  treatment,  and  the  story  of  '  Tiger  Lily  '  is, 
in  its  way,  short  as  it  is,  a  masterpiece." — 7 he  Critic. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

STRANGE  CASE  OF  DR.  JEKYLL  AND  MR.  HYDE.  (l2mo,  paper,  25 
cis.;  cloth,  $100)- KIDNAPPED.  (l2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00, 
illustrated,  $1.25)— THE  MERRY  MEN,  and  Other  Tales  and  Fables.  (l2mo, 
paper,  35  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00)— NEW  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  (l2mo,  paper, 
30  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00)— THE  DYNAMITER.  With  Mrs.  Stevenson  (l2mo, 
paper,  30  cis.;    cloth,   $1.00). 

"  If  there  is  any  writer  of  the  time  about  whom  the  critics  of 
England  and  America  substantially  agree  it  is  Mr.  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson.  There  is  something  in  his  work,  precisely  what,  it  is 
not  easy  to  say,  which  engages  and  fixes  the  attention  from  the  first 
page  to  the  last,  which  shapes  itself  before  the  mind's  eye  while 
reading,  and  which  refuses  to  be  forgotten  long  after  the  book  which 
revealed  it  has  been  closed  and  put  away." — The  New  York  Mail 
and  Express. 


8  SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 

y.  5.,  of  Dale,  ' 

GUERNDALE.  (l2mo.  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— THE  CRIME  OF  HENRY 
VANE.  (l2mo,  $1.00;— THE  SENTIMENTAL  CALENDAR.  Head  Pi«ces 
by  F.  G.  Attwood  (l2mo,  $2.00). 

"  The  author  of  that  very  bright,  witty,  and  audacious  story, 
'Guerndale,'  has  written  another,  'The  Crime  of  Henry  Vane,' 
which  is  just  as  witty  in  many  of  its  chapters  and  has  more  of  a 
■  purpose'  in  its  whole  structure.  No  young  novelist  in  this  country 
seems  better  equipped  than  Mr.  Stimson  is.  He  shows  unusual  gifts 
in  this  and  in  his  other  stories." — The  Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

Frank  R,  Stockton, 

RUDDER  GRANGE.  (l2mo,  paper,  60  els.;  cloth,  $!.25;  illustrated  by  A.  B. 
Frost,  Sq.  l2mo,  S2.00)— THE  LATE  MRS.  NULL.  (l2mo,  SI.25)— THE 
LADY,  OR  THE  TIGER?  and  Other  Stories.  (l2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth. 
$1.25)— THE  CHRISTMAS  WRECK,  and  Other  Stories.  (l2mo,  paper,  50 
cts.;  cloth,  SI25)-THE  8EE-MAN  OF  ORN,  and  Other  Fanciful  Tales. 
(l2mo,  cloth,  $1.25.) 

"  Of  Mr.  Stockton's  stories  what  is  there  to  say,  but  that  they 
are  an  unmixed  blessing  and  delight  ?  He  is  surely  one  of  the  most 
inventive  of  talents,  discovering  not  only  a  new  kind  in  humor  and 
fancy,  but  accumulrting  an  inexhaustible  wealth  of  details  in  each 
fresh  achievement,  the  least  of  which  would  be  riches  from  another 
hand." — W.  D.  Howells,  in  Harper s  Magazine. 

Stories  by  American  Authors, 

Cloth,  i6mo,  ^oc.  each  ;  set,  lo  vols.,  %^.oo;  cabinet  ed.,  in  sets  only,  $7.So. 
Circulars  describing  the  series  sent  on  application  to  the  publishers 

"  The  public  ought  to  appreciate  the  value  of  this  series,  which 
is  preserving  permanently  in  American  literature  short  stories  that 
have  contributed  to  its  advancement.  American  writers  lead  all 
others  in  this  form  of  fiction,  and  their  best  work  appears  in  these 
volumes." — The  Boston  Globe, 

T.  R.  Sullivan, 

ROSES  OF  SHADOW.     (I2nf)0,  $1.00.) 

"The  characters  of  the  story  have  a  remarkable  vividness  and 
individuality — every  one  of  them — which  mark  at  once  Mr.  Sullivan's 
strongest  promise  as  a  novelist.  All  of  his  men  are  excellent.  John 
Musgrove,  the  grimly  pathetic  old  beau,  sometimes  reminds  us  of  a 
louch  of  Thackeray." — The  Cincinnati  Times-S/ar. 

John  T.  Wheelwright, 

A  CSILD  OF  THE  CENTURY.     (l2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;    cloth,  §1.00.) 

"  This  is  one  of  the  most  thoroughly  enjoyable  novels  that  has 
been  published  for  a  long  time.  It  is  a  story  of  to-day,  of  American 
life  and  character  ;  a  typical  story  of  political  and  social  life,  free 
from  cynicism  or  morbid  realism,  and  brimming  over  with  good- 
natured  fun,  which  is  never  vulgar." —  The  Christian  at  Wot/:. 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
182 


